'' i;^-j^iM  m'&.-ii^^ 


■:>. 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


THE    POEMS     OF    MILTON. 


VOLUME   I. 


0 


Utoiv 


THE 


P 


OETICAL 


w 


ORKS 


OF 


JOHN     MILTON. 


WITH  A   MEMOIR. 


VOL.    I. 


BOSTON; 
LITTLE,    BROWN,    AND    COMPANY. 
1866. 


fp 


V.  / 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 
LITTLE,    BROWN,    AND    COMPANY, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massa- 
chusetts. 


Ofie  Hundred  copies  printed. 
No. 


University    Press: 

Welch,    Bigelow,   and    Company, 

Cambridge. 


U 


O 

oo 


CONTENTS 


VOL.  I. 

Page 
Advertisement iv 

Life  of  Milton,  by  David  Masson vi 

Complimentary  Verses  of  Barrow  and  Marvell 

Paradise  Lost: 

Book  1 1 

Book  II 36 

Book  III 80 

Book  IV Ill 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Life  of  Milton  prefixed  to  this  edition 
is  from  the  pen  of  his  latest  biographer.  Prof. 
David  Masson,  of  London.  The  notes  are  those 
of  the  Rev.  John  Mitford.  Before  going  to  a 
new  impression,  occasion  has  been  taken  to  cor- 
rect a  considerable  number  of  errors,  principally 
in  the  citations  from  the  Greek,  Latin,  and  Ital- 
ian poets. 


THE   LIFE   OF   MILTON. 

BY    DAVID    MASSON. 

John  Milton  was  born  at  his  father's  house 
in  Bread  Street,  in  the  city  of  London,  on  the 
9th  of  December,  1608.  Nothing  of  the  mate- 
rial fabric  of  the  street  in  which  he  was  bom  now 
remains,  the  great  fire  of  1666  having  destroyed 
that  with  so  much  of  the  rest  of  old  London. 
But  the  present  Bread  Street,  which  is  one  of 
the  streets  striking  off  from  the  great  thorough- 
fare of  Cheapside  towards  the  river,  occupies  the 
exact  site  of  the  old  Bread  Street ;  and  the  spot  in 
which  Milton  was  born  may  be  yet  identified  as 
being  that  occupied  by  the  third  or  fourth  house 
on  the  left,  going  from  Cheapside.  Here,  as  one 
of  a  line  of  very  respectable  shops,  and  dwelling- 
houses  over  them,  inhabited  chiefly  by  merchants, 
and  all,  as  was  then  the  custom,  distinguished  by 
signs  over  the  doors  and  not  by  numbers  as  at 
present,  there  stood,  prior  to  the  great  fire,  a  house 
and  shop  known  as  the  Black  Spread  Eagle.  Mil- 
ton's father,  whose  name  was  also  John,  had  oc- 
cupied this  house  since  1603,  and  carried  on  in 
it  the  business  of  a  scrivener  or  a  copying  lawyer. 
The  story  is,  that  he  had  betaken  himself  to  that 
profession  some  fifteen  or  twenty  years  before,  on 
being  disinherited  by  his  father,  a  substantial  yeo- 
man in  Oxfordshire,  for  having  abandoned  the 
Cathohc  faith.     He  had  prospered  well,  and  had 


viii  THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

become  possessed  of  considerable  property,  includ- 
ing the  house  in  Bread  Street ;  and  the  sign  of 
the  Spread  Eagle  affixed  to  the  house  was  no 
other  than  the  armorial  device  of  his  family. 
Before  removing  to  this  house,  and  when  verg- 
ing on  forty  years  of  age,  he  had  married  a  lady 
considerably  younger  than  himself,  whose  name, 
according  to  one  account,  was  Sarah  Bradshaw, 
but  according  to  another,  Sarah  Caston.  Five 
children  were  the  issue  of  the  marriage,  of  whom 
only  three  attained  to  mature  years,  —  a  daugh- 
ter, Anne,  a  year  or  two  older  than  the  poet ;  the 
poet  himself;  and  a  son  named  Christopher,  ex- 
actly seven  years  younger  than  the  poet. 

In  Milton's  case  there  is  less  trace  of  the  effect 
of  that  rude,  though  powerful  kind  of  education 
which  is  afforded  to  all  children  by  the  mere  mis- 
cellany of  external  circumstances  amid  which  they 
live,  than  of  the  effect  of  the  more  express  ed- 
ucation of  orderly  domestic  training.  Here,  to 
use  a  common  phrase,  he  had  every  advantage. 
Peace,  piety,  and  comfort  reigned  in  the  home 
in  Bread  Street.  Like  most  of  the  substantial 
London  citizens  of  the  time,  the  scrivener  was 
of  Puritan  leanings  in  the  matter  of  religion,  and 
his  household  was  regulated  on  Puritan  principles. 
But  he  was  also  a  man  of  liberal  culture  and  taste. 
He  was  especially  skilled  in  music ;  and  specimens 
of  his  skill  in  this  art  may  be  seen  in  various 
musical  publications  of  the  day.  It  was  from  him 
that  Milton  derived  his  musical  ear,  and  his  first 
tuition  in  music  as  an  art  and  a  science.  This 
excellent  man  discerned  the  genius  of  his  son  from 
the  first,  and  found  the  chief  pleasure  and  pride 
of  his  life  in  fostering  it  and  watching  its  growth. 
Of  Milton's  mother  we  hear  less.    She  was,  accord- 


THE    LII'E    OF   MILTON.  IX 

ing  to  Milton  himself,  "a  most  amiable  woman, 
particularly  noted  for  her  charities  in  the  neigh- 
borhood ; "  and  Aubrey  adds  that  she  had  such 
weak  eyes,  that  before  she  was  thirty  years  old 
she  had  to  wear  spectacles. 

It  was  in  his  father's  house  that  Milton  received 
his  earliest  literary  education.  His  first  teacher 
was  Thomas  Young,  a  Scotchman,  who,  after  hav- 
ing been  educated  at  one  of  the  Scottish  univer- 
sities, had  migrated  into  England.  His  connection 
with  the  Milton  family  may  have  begun  as  early 
as  1618,  when  his  pupil  was  ten  years  of  age; 
and  it  must  have  closed  by  1623,  when  Young 
went  abroad  as  chaplain  to  the  British  merchants 
at  Hamburg,  from  which  exile  he  returned  in 
1 628  to  be  settled  as  vicar  of  Stowmarket  in 
Suffolk.  While  still  under  Young's  care,  Milton 
was  sent  to  St.  Paul's  School  —  a  public  grammar 
school  of  as  high  celebrity  as  any  in  London,  and 
convenient  as  being  situated  within  a  minute's 
walk  pf  Bread  Street.  The  head- master  of  the 
school  was  Alexander  Gill,  a  Lincolnshire  man, 
whose  reputation  as  a  teacher  was  then  great ; 
and  the  usher,  or  undermaster,  was  his  son,  the 
Rev.  Alexander  Gill,  junior,  who  had  recently 
left  Oxford  with  a  considerable  name  as  a  schol- 
ar. With  him  Milton  contracted  an  acquaintance, 
which  was  continued  afterwards  ;  and  he  also  form- 
ed a  friendship  with  a  fellow-pupil  at  the  school, 
named  Charles  Diodati,  the  son  of  an  Italian  phy- 
sician settled  in  London.  Diodati  left  school  for 
Oxford  in  1621;  but  Milton  remained  at  school 
three  or  four  years  longer.  At  school,  according 
to  Aubrey,  "  he  studied  very  hard  and  sat  up  very 
late,  commonly  till  twelve  or  one  o'clock,  and  his 
father  ordered  the  maid  to  sit  up  for  him ;  and 


X  THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

in  these  years  he  composed  many  verses  which 
might  well  become  a  riper  age."  Of  these  early 
poetical  exercises,  the  only  remaining  specimens 
are  his  English  paraphrases  of  Psalms  cxiv.  and 
cxxxvi.,  which  bear  to  have  been  done  in  his  six- 
teenth year.  Milton  himself,  howevei",  confirms 
Aubrey's  account  of  his  excessive  studiousness 
from  his  earliest  boyhood ;  and  he  says  that  when 
he  was  sent  to  the  university  he  was  already  "in- 
structed in  various  tongues,"  and  had  "  no  mean 
apprehension  of  the  sweetness  of  philosophy." 

Cambridge  has  the  honor  of  counting  Milton 
among  her  eminent  sons.  He  was  entered  as  a 
lesser  pensioner  at  Christ's  College,  Cambridge, 
on  the  12th  February,  1624-5,  when  he  was  six- 
teen years  and  two  months  old ;  and  he  continued 
his  studies  in  the  college  for  the  full  academic 
period  of  seven  years.  Concerning  his  college- 
hfe  there  has  been  much  difficulty  among  his 
biographers.  Johnson  was  the  first  to  hint  the 
belief  that  while  at  college  he  sustained  some 
punishment  at  the  hands  of  the  college  authori- 
ties, if  not  the  indignity  of  corporal  chastisement. 
The  original  authority,  however,  for  such  a  state- 
ment is  Aubrey,  whose  memoir  of  Milton,  acces- 
sible in  print  since  1813,  Johnson  had  probably 
seen  in  MS.  at  Oxford.  Aubrey  says  that  Milton, 
having  received  "  some  unkindness  "  from  his  first 
tutor  at  college,  left  him  for  another ;  and  over 
the  words  "  some  unkindness  "  there  are  in- 
serted in  the  MS.  the  words  "  whipt  him"  On 
this,  taken  in  connection  with  Milton's  first  Latin 
elegy,  in  which,  writing  to  his  friend  Diodati,  he 
seems  to  refer  to  some  difference  with  the  college 
authorities,  which  was  occasioning  his  temporary 
absence  from  college,  the  whole  controversy  has 


THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON.  XI 

been  raised.  From  the  investigation  we  have 
been  able  to  bestow  on  the  subject,  the  facts 
seem  to  be  these :  —  That  about  the  second  or 
third  year  of  his  residence  at  college  Milton  did 
have  some  difference  with  his  first  tutor,  Mr. 
William  Chappell,  then  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished tutors  in  the  university,  and  after- 
wards Bishop  of  Cork  and  Ross  ;  that  this  dif- 
ference did  involve  some  interference  on  the  part 
of  the  master  of  the  college,  Dr.  Bainbridge,  in 
consequence  of  which  Milton  left  college  for  a 
time  ;  but  that  eventually  the  difference  was  ad- 
justed by  his  being  transferred  from  Chappell's 
tutorship  to  that  of  the  Rev.  Nathaniel  Tovey, 
afterwards  a  parish  clergyman  in  Leicestershire. 
It  is  cei-tain,  at  least,  that  any  "  rustication "  to 
which  Milton  was  subjected  did  not  involve  the 
loss  of  a  single  term  of  his  academic  course.  He 
took  both  his  degrees  exactly  at  the  proper  time ; 
his  B.  A.  degree  in  January  1628-9,  and  his 
M.  A.  degree  in  July  1632.  Apart,  however, 
from  the  •  controversy  as  to  his  rustication,  it  is 
certain,  from  Milton's  own  statements,  that  at 
first,  owing  to  a  certain  haughtiness  of  manner, 
and  also  to  a  certain  obstinacy  in  pursuing  his 
own  course  of  study,  he  was  unpopular  within 
the  walls  of  the  college.  His  college-fellows,  he 
tells  us,  used  to  nickname  him  "  The  Lady,"  in 
allusion  partly  to  the  delicacy  of  his  personal  ap- 
pearance, and  partly  to  his  moral  fastidiousness. 
He  informs  us  distinctly,  however,  that  this  un- 
popularity was  but  temporary,  and  that  long  be- 
fore he  left  college  he  had  won  the  respect  not 
only  of  the  college,  but  of  the  whole  university. 
He  speaks  in  one  place  of  "  that  more  than  ordi- 
nary favor  and  respect  which  he  found  above  any 


Xii  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

of  his  equals  at  the  hands  of  those  courteous  and 
learned  men  "  who  were  the  authorities  of  his  col- 
lege, and  who,  he  says,  when  he  left  them  in  1632, 
"  signified  in  many  ways  how  much  better  it  would 
content  them  that  he  would  stay."  In  short,  Milton 
left  the  university  with  the  highest  possible  repu- 
tation. "  By  his  indefatigable  study,"  says  An- 
thony Wood,  "  he  profited  exceedingly,  and  was 
esteemed  to  be  a  sober  and  virtuous  person,  yet 
not  to  be  ignorant  of  his  own  parts."  These  last 
words  are  worth  noting.  From  the  very  first 
there  is  discernible  in  Milton  a  vein  of  noble  self- 
respect,  and  even  self-assertion  ;  a  conviction  of 
superior  power  when  measured  with  others ;  a 
conscious  dedication  of  his  life  to  noble  ends ; 
and  a  resolution  to  preserve  unstained  the  purity 
of  his  moral  being,  as  essential  to  the  capacity 
of  truly  great  work  in  the  world,  or  truly  great 
endeavor  of  whatever  kind. 

On  going  to  the  university  Milton  had  been 
destined  for  the  Church.  For  this  purpose  he 
had  gone  through  the  usual  course  of  study  in 
rhetoric,  logic,  and  the  scholastic  philosophy  and 
theology  —  studies,  however,  which  even  then  he 
regarded  in  the  main  as  barren  and  unprofitable, 
and  on  which,  as  on  the  whole  system  of  univer- 
sity training,  he  afterwards  looked  back  with  ve- 
hement contempt.  There  is  evidence  that  during 
the  seven  years  which  he  spent  in  Christ's  College 
he  led  a  life  of  singular  intellectual  independence, 
performing  his  academic  tasks  duly,  but  occupy- 
ing himself  with  much  else  of  his  own  choosing. 
The  following  is  a  list  of  his  remaining  writings 
during  this  period  (1625-1632)  :  — 

I.  Latin. —  {1.)  In  j^rose,  the  first  four  of  his  Familiar 
Epistles,  written  in  1625  and  1628,  and  addressed  to  Thomas 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  XUl 

Young  and  Alexander  Gill  the  younger;  and  seven  college 
themes  or  orations  on  various  subjects  written  between  1626 
and  1632,  and  first  published  by  him,  along  with  his  Familiar 
Epistles,  in  1674,  under  the  title  of  Prolustanes  qumlam  Ora- 
iorice.  (2.)  In  verse,  thirteen  pieces,  chiefly  on  incidents  of 
his  university  life;  to  wit,  the  seven  pieces  in  tlie  elegiac 
metre  which  form  his  Elegiarum  Liber,  and  the  first  six  pieces 
of  his  so-called  Sylvarum  Liber. 

II.  English.  —  Thirteen  poems,  longer  or  shorter,  as  fol- 
lows :  —  On  the  Death  of  a  Fair  Infant  dijing  of  a  Cough,  1626, 
—  the  infant  being  the  poet's  niece,  the  daughter  of  his  sister 
Anne,  who  in  1624  or  1625  had  married  Edward  Philips  from 
Shrewsbury,  who  held  a  situation  in  the  Crown  Office,  London ; 
pai-t  of  a  Vacation  Exercise  at  College,  1628 ;  The  Hymn  on  the 
Nativity,  1629;  On  the  Passion,  1630;  On  Time,  1630;  On  the 
Circumcision,  1630;  At  a  Solemn  Musick,  1630;  On  May 
Morning,  1630;  On  ShaJcspeare,  1630;  On  the  University  Car- 
rier (Hobson),  "who  sickened  in  the  time  of  his  vacancy 
(January  1630-1),  being  forbid  to  go  to  London  by  reason  of 
the  plague;"  Another  on  the  same;  An  Epitaph  on  the  Mar- 
chioness of  Winchester,  1631;  Sonnet  on  his  twenty-third 
birthday,  1631. 

No  one  can  read  these  juvenile  compositions 
now  without  discerning  in  them  ample  pi'omise 
of  what  Milton  became.  The  English  poems  are 
best  known ;  and  in  one  or  two  of  them  — as  in 
that  on  the  Fair  Infant  and  that  on  Christ's  Na- 
tivity—  there  is  evidence  of  true  poetic  genius 
and  of  the  most  exquisite  skill  in  words  and  verse. 
But  it  is  in  the  less-read  Latin  compositions,  per- 
haps, that  the  leading  traits  in  the  character  of 
the  young  poet  are  best  exhibited.  There,  while 
we  admire  the  strong  understanding,  and  a  com- 
mand of  the  Latin  tongue  in  comparison  with 
which  the  usual  classical  Latinity  of  modern 
scholars  is  forced  and  feeble,  and  while  also,  even 
in  the  cumbrous  element  of  the  Latin,  we  discern 
the  graceful  winging  of  the  poetic  muse,  we  see 
at  the  same  time,  better  than  we  can  see  in  the 
English  poems,  the  habitually  grave  and  austere 
tone  of  Milton's  mind  from  his   earliest  youth,  — 


XIV  THE    LIFE    OF   MILTO.N. 

its  tendency,  on  the  one  hand,  to  scorn,  and  a  kind 
of  fei'ocitj  of  disgust  and  reprobation ;  and  on  the 
other,  to  high  ideal  views  and  contemplations  such 
as  enter  only  the  spirits  of  the  sublime.  Nowhere 
else  in  the  range  of  juvenile  writing  known  to  us 
is  there  such  distinct  evidence  of  what  Horace  has 
called  the  "  os  magna  soniturum,"  —  the  mouth 
formed  for  great  utterances.  The  very  heaviness 
of  such  attempts  as  there  are  at  the  facetious  and 
the  humorous  proves  that  it  was  not  in  these  that 
Milton  was  fitted  to  excel.  "J^estwitates  et  sales" 
he  says  himself  in  one  of  the  pieces,  "  in  quibus 
perexiguam  agnosco  facultatem  meam."  In  other 
words,  the  basis  of  his  chai'acter  was  a  moral  aus- 
terity inconsistent  with  mere  frolic  or  frivolity, 
though  not  inconsistent  with  the  free  exercise,  on 
the  one  hand,  of  a  powerful  and  inquisitive  intel- 
lect, or,  on  the  other,  of  a  fantasy  delighting  in 
the  minutest  forms  of  the  musical  and  the  grace- 
ful. 

It  is  to  be  remembered  that,  though  Milton  had 
the  compositions  above  mentioned  in  manuscript 
before  leaving  Cambridge,  none  of  them  was  pub- 
lished prior  to  that  time,  except  the  Epitaph  on 
Shakspeare.  It  appeared  anonymously  among 
the  laudatory  verses  prefixed  to  the  second  folio 
Shakspeare  in  1632  ;  and  it  is  interesting  to  know 
that  Milton's  first  appearance  in  print  was  on  such 
an  occasion.  He  was  then  in  his  twenty-fourth 
year.  According  to  his  original  intention,  he 
would  about  this  time  have  been  passing  from 
college  to  some  country  curacy;  and  one  can 
hardly  help  speculating  as  to  what  might  have 
been  the  result  for  the  Church  of  England  had  he 
done  so.  A  Milton  among  the  ecclesiastics  of  the 
days  of  Laud  would  have  been  a  phenomenon  of 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  XV 

some  interest.  Long  ere  leaving  college,  however, 
he  had  abandoned  the  idea  of  being  a  clergyman. 
The  reason  was  his  jealous  concern  for  his  intel- 
lectual and  religious  freedom, —  a  state  of  mind 
for  which  the  condition  of  the  Church  of  England 
under  the  ascendency  of  Laud  afforded  little 
chance  of  satisfaction.  Whoever  would  become  a 
clergyman  at  that  time  must,  he  said,  "  subscribe 
slave,  and  take  an  oath  withal,  which,  unless  he 
took  with  a  conscience  that  could  not  retch,  he 
must  strait  perjure  himself."  He  describes  him- 
self, therefore,  as  "  church-outed  by  the  prelates," 
and  as  having  no  other  prospect  left  to  him  than 
that  of  a  life  devoted  to  study  and  literature.  It 
says  much  for  the  liberality  and  discretion  of  his 
father,  that  in  these  circumstances,  instead  of  urg- 
ing him  into  a  profession  against  his  will,  he  suf- 
fered him  to  take  his  own  way.  Till  he  was 
thirty-one  years  of  age,  Milton  did  not  earn  a 
penny  for  himself. 

The  five  years  of  Milton's  life  which  followed 
his  leaving  college  (1632-1637)  were  spent  by 
him  at  Horton  in  Buckinghamshire,  about  twenty 
miles  from  London,  whither  his  father  had  retired 
in  his  old  age  after  giving  up  business.  These 
five  years,  according  to  his  own  account,  were 
spent  in  complete  literary  leisure  and  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  quiet  rural  beauty  of  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  not  but  that  sometimes  he  "  exchanged  the 
country  for  the  town,  either  for  the  purpose  of 
buying  books  or  for  that  of  taking  lessons  in 
music  or  mathematics."  During  this  time,  he 
says,  he  turned  over  the  Greek  and  Latin  writers  ; 
doubtless  also  the  Italian,  French,  and  English  ; 
and  there  is  proof  also  that  he  entertained  for  a 
time  the  notion  of  studying  law  along  with  his 


XVI  THE    LIFE    OF  MILTON. 

younger  brother  Christopher,  who  had  adopted  the 
law  as  his  profession.  Of  his  literary  assiduity 
during  the  same  period  there  is  ample  evidence 
in  a  long  list  of  subjects  for  dramas  and  other 
poems,  drawn  out  by  him  in  the  course  of  his 
miscellaneous  reading,  and  now  preserved,  with 
others  of  his  manuscripts,  in  the  library  of  Trin- 
ity College,  Cambridge.  Of  his  actual  and  sur- 
viving writings  during  this  period  the  following 
is  a  list : 

I.  Three  Latin  Familiar  Epistles, — the  first  dated  1634, 
and  addressed  to  Alexander  Gill  the  Younger,  and  the  other 
two  dated  September,  1637,  and  addressed  to  Charles  Diodati. 
Possibly  also  a  scrap  or  two  of  Latin  verse. 

IL  1  he  following  well-known  English  poems : 

1.  The  Sonnet  to  the  Nightingale ;  and  possibly  one  or  two 
other  sonnets. 

2.  The  two  exquisite  companion  poems  L" Allegro  and  11 
Penservso. 

3.  '■'■Arcades;  part  of  an  entertainment  presented  to  the 
Countess  Dowager  of  Derby  at  Harefield  by  some  noble  per- 
sons of  her  family,  who  appear  on  the  scene  in  pastoral  hab- 
it." The  Dowager  Countess  of  Derby  here  alluded  to  was 
the  same  lady  who,  in  her  youth,  forty  years  before,  had,  un- 
der the  name  of  Amaryllis,  been  the  theme  of  Spenser's  song. 
After  the  death  of  her  first  husband,  Lord  Strange,  who  suc- 
ceeded his  father  as  Earl  of  Derby  in  1594,  she  had  married 
the  Lord  Keeper,  afterwards  Lord  Chancellor,  Egerton,  by 
whose  death  in  1617  she  was  left  a  widow  for  the  second  time. 
She  lived  at  Harefield  House,  near  Uxbridge,  where  she  fre- 
quently had  her  younger  relatives  about  her,  including  the 
Earl  of  Bridgewater,  her  second  husband's  eldest  son,  who 
had  married  one  of  her  daughters  by  her  first  husband.  It 
has  been  supposed  that  this  venerable  lady  and  her  family 
had  discovered  the  poetic  talent  of  Milton,  and  had  him  fre- 
quently with  them  as  a  favored  guest ;  but  the  more  prob- 
able supposition  is,  that  the  j'oung  people  of  her  family,  hav- 
ing resolved,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  time,  to  get  up  a 
masque  or  musical  entertainment  in  her  honor,  Milton  wrote 
the  words  of  the  Arcades  to  oblige  his  intimate  ft'iend  Henry 
Lawes  the  musician,  who  had  been  charged  with  the  arrange- 
ments. The  date  of  the  entertainment  was  1633  or  1634;  and 
Arcades  was  therefore  written  when  Milton  was  in  his  twenty- 
sixth  year. 

4.  "  Comus;  a  masque  presented  at  Ludlow  Castle,  1634, 


THE    LIFE    OP   MILTON.  xvii 

before  John,  Earl  of  Bridgewater,  then  President  of  Wales." 
Pleased  with  the  Arcades,  the  j'ouug  people  of  the  Bridge- 
water  family  had  determined  on  a  longer  and  more  elaborate 
performance  of  the  same  kind  ;  and  they  found  an  excellent 
opportunity  for  it  in  the  autumn  of  1634,  when  the  earl  went 
to  Ludlow  Castle  in  Shropshire  to  take  up  his  olBcial  resi- 
dence there  as  Lord  President  of  Wales.  His  children  — 
Lord  Brackley,  Mr.  Thomas  Egerton,  and  Lady  Alice  — 
went  with  him;  and  there  was  a  congress  of  the  "neighbor- 
ing nobility  and  gentry.  The  masque  for  such  an  occasion 
required  to  be  something  beyond  ordinary;  and  while  Lawes 
did  his  best  for  the  music,  it  was  felt  by  the  family  that  it 
would  raise  the  character  of  the  entertainment  if  Milton 
woidd  undertake  the  poetry.  He  did  so;  and  taking  a  hint, 
it  is  said,  from  an  adventure  which  had  befallen  Ladv  Alice 
m  Haywood  Forest,  produced  the  beautiful  masque' of  the 
Lady  lost  in  the  Enchanted  Wood,  and  beguiled  by  Comus 
and  his  crew,  till  her  brothers  find  her.  It  was  by  far  the 
most  considerable  poem  that  Milton  had  yet  produced,  and 
the  rumor  of  it  must  have  carried  his  name  into  manv  cir- 
cles. That  it  did  so,  we  learn  trom  the  fact  that  Lawes"  pub- 
lished the  poem  in  1637,  with  a  dedication  to  Lord  Brackley, 
in  which  he  says,  that  "  although  not  openly  acknowledged 
by  the  author,  yet  it  is  a  legitimate  offspring,  so  lovelv  and  so 
much  desired,  that  the  often  copying  of  it  hath  tired"  my  pen 
to  give  my  several  friends  satisfaction,  and  wrought  me  to 
a  necessity  of  producing  it  to  the  public  view." 

5.  Lycklas ;  a  monody  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Edward  King, 
a  young  gentleman  of  great  promise,  who  had  been  Milton's 
college  companion  at  Cambridge.  He  was  drowned  in  Au- 
gust, 1637,  in  crossing  from  Chester  to  Ireland,  where  his 
friends  resided;  and  the  event  seems  to  have  produced  a 
great  sensation  at  Cambridge,  where  a  volume  was  published 
in  the  following  year,  containing  three  Greek,  nineteen  Latin, 
and  thirteen  English  poems  to  his  memorv.  Milton's  Lyci- 
das,  which  is  signed  "J.  M.,"  closes  the  "volume.  He  had 
most  probably  written  it  at  Horton  and  sent  it  to  Cambridge. 
He  was  then  in  his  twenty-ninth  j^ear. 

Such  were  Milton's  productions  during  the  five 
years  of  his  residence  under  his  father's  roof  at 
Horton,  or  from  his  twenty-fourth  to  his  twenty- 
ninth  year.  They  are  small  in  bulk,  but  how  ex- 
quisite in  quality  !  The  minor  poems  of  Milton 
are,  and  ever  will  be,  the  admiration  of  critics ; 
and  had  Milton  died  at  the  same  time  as  the 
friend  whom  he  celebrates  as  Lycidas,  we  should 

VOL.  I.  b 


XVIU  THE    LIFE    OP   MILTON. 

still  have  had,  in  virtue  of  those  poems,  to  pro- 
nounce his  beautiful  name  among  those  of  the 
sons  of  the  English  muse. 

Considered,  however,  in  relation  to  our  knowl- 
edge of  Milton  as  he  was  all  in  all  through  life, 
there  is  a  peculiarity  in  these  early  poems.  They 
are  truly  Miltonic ;  but  they  are  Miltonic,  not  in 
the  sense  that  they  represent  the  whole  of  Milton, 
even  as  he  was  when  he  wrote  them,  but  in  the 
sense  that  they  represent  hira  in  those  moments 
when  he  bent  his  softer  genius  to  the  exercise  and 
relaxation  of  English  verse.  The  poems  belong, 
on  the  whole,  to  the  idyllic,  or  what  may  be  called 
the  sensuous-ideal  class  ;  that  is  to  say,  they  are 
rather  poems  of  rich  and  beautiful  fantasy,  of 
quiet  thoughts  and  imaginations  sweetly  linked, 
than  of  powerful  human  interest  or  greatly  agi- 
tated feeling.  They  are  in  this  respect  not  unlike 
the  poetry  of  Spenser  and  Keats.  According  to 
Coleridge's  remark,  however,  they  prove  all  the 
better  on  this  account  that  Milton  was  by  nature 
a  poet.  The  tendency  to  choose  themes  lying  re- 
mote from  ordinary  social  interests,  and  the  abili- 
ty, in  treating  such  themes,  to  wander  on  and  on 
in  a  purely  ideal  manner,  weaving  a  tissue  of 
sensuous  fancies  connected  by  occult  relations 
of  beauty  rather  than  by  the  direct  associations  of 
place  and  time,  are,  according  to  Coleridge,  the 
most  hopeful  signs  in  a  youthful  poet.  These 
signs  were  visible  in  Milton  from  the  first.  With 
all  his  moral  austerity,  all  his  learning,  all  the 
strength  of  his  understanding,  and  all  his  sterner 
inclination  to  the  dogmatic,  the  indignant,  and  the 
polemical,  his  main  delight  from  the  first,  when 
he  was  free  to  choose,  was  in  purely  literary  and 
especially  poetic  recreation ;  as  if  to  show  how, 


THE   LIFE    OF    MILTON.  XIX 

by  reason  of  very  strength,  a  soul  might  come  to 
rest  in  the  sweet  and  exquisite,  and  so  make  true 
his  own  maxim, — 

"  How  charming  is  divine  philosophy !  — 
Not  harsh  and  crabbed  as  dull  fools  suppose, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute." 

His  early  preferences  in  literature,  he  tells  us 
himself,  had  been  for  the  "  smooth  elegiac  poets," 
whom,  both  for  their  matter  and  "  the  pleasing 
sound  of  their  numerous  writing,"  he  found  "  in 
imitation  most  easy,  and  most  agreeable  to  na- 
ture's part "  in  him.  He  means  here  poets  of 
the  sensuous  or  sensuous-ideal  order,  and  refers 
chiefly  to  Ovid  and  other  classic  and  Italian  poets, 
though  Spenser  may  be  included.  That  he  was 
right  in  saying  that,  as  regards  their  form,  the 
imitation  of  these  poets  was  agreeable  to  nature's 
part  in  him,  no  reader  of  the  minor  poems  can 
doubt.  One  of  the  most  striking  things  about  them, 
especially  when  compared  with  the  contemporary 
English  poetry  produced  under  Ben  Jonson's  crit- 
ical supremacy,  during  the  last  years  of  his  laureat- 
ship,  is  the  perfection  of  their  literary  texture,  — 
the  taste  and  finish  of  their  language  and  versifi- 
cation. Ben  died  in  1637,  and  they  were  therefore 
in  existence  in  time  for  him  to  have  seen  them,  or 
some  of  them  ;  and  if  he  had  seen  them,  he  would 
have  found  even  his  own  most  graceful  masques, 
and  much  more  the  productions  of  the  Randolphs 
and  others  whom  he  regarded  as  his  literary  chil- 
dren, but  slovenly  things  in  comparison.  But  while 
the  form  of  the  poets  whom  he  admired  presented 
no  difficulty  to  Milton,  was  rivalry  with  them  in 
matter  equally  agreeable  to  nature's  part  in  hira  ? 
On  this  point  there  have  been  varieties  in  opinion. 
That  all  in  all  Milton  was  a  poet ;  that  he  possessed 


XX  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

the  poetic  faculty  par  excellence,  —  call  it  imagi- 
nation, ideality,  or  what  we  will,  —  no  one  has  yet 
been  bold  enough  to  deny ;  and  there  are  perhaps 
few  who  would  not  agree  with  Coleridge  that  the 
nature  of  this  "  poetic  imagination  "  —  this  "  vision 
and  faculty  divine  "  —  may  be  better  studied  in 
Milton,  by  reason  of  its  colossal  proportions  in 
him,  than  in  any  other  English  poet.  If  imagi- 
nation in  the  poet  is  the  power  of  thinking  in 
concrete  circumstance,  of  embodying  meanings 
and  states  of  mind  in  imaginary  scenes,  inci- 
dents, and  objects  of  beauty,  which  remain  in 
the  memory  as  "  a  joy  for  ever,"  —  what  im- 
agination in  the  Penseroso  and  the  Allegro,  where 
the  poet  has  collected  and  woven  together  with 
such  musical  art  the  circumstances  of  nature  and 
life  suggestive  to  the  recluse  of  melancholy  on 
the  one  hand,  and  of  cheerfulness  on  the  other  ; 
in  the  Arcades,  where,  upon  the  simple  incident 
of  two  or  three  young  people  advancing  on  an 
English  lawn,  with  the  homage  of  a  speech  and 
songs,  to  a  venerable  lady  seated  under  the  trees 
to  receive  them,  the  poet  has  framed  so  complete 
and  so  charming  a  fantasy  for  ear  and  eye  ;  in 
the  Gomus,  where,  on  the  suggestion  of  a  larger 
incident  of  the  same  kind,  he  has  provided  for 
us,  and  placed  irremovably  in  our  literature,  that 
fantasy  of  the  enchanted  forest,  more  British 
than  any  in  Spenser,  and  yet  wholly  air-hung, 
through  which  the  lost  maiden  is  ever  wandering, 
and  the  noble  pair  of  brothers  are  ever  searching 
for  her,  and  the  magical  crew  are  ever  revelling 
with  evil  intent,  and  the  attendant  spirit  of  purity, 
disguised  as  a  shepherd,  is  ever  walking  his  watch- 
ful round  ;  finally,  in  the  Lycidas,  where,  because 
a  hopeful  youth  has  died,  we  are  back  among 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  XXI 

the  streams  and  dells  of  Arcadia,  and  behold  a 
landscape  in  tears  !  And  yet  here  occurs  a 
question.  Imagination  or  poetry  consists  in  em- 
bodying meanings  and  feelings  in  forms,  which 
forms  must  be  sensuous ;  but  can  it  be  that  a 
mind  should  have  this  poetic  tendency  to  sen- 
suous embodiment  of  an  ideal  kind  without  hav- 
ing a  fondness  for  what  may  be  called  the  actual 
sensuous,  or,  in  other  words,  a  love  of  natural 
beauty  and  an  accurate  perception  of  it  ?  As 
regards  Milton,  this  question  has  been  raised  in- 
cidentally by  Mr.  Ruskin,  who,  in  a  classification 
he  has  given  of  eminent  moderns  according  to 
the  degree  in  which  they  seem  to  him  to  have 
possessed  a  constitutional  delight  in  nature,  or 
the  habit  of  accurately  perceiving  natural  beauty, 
has  placed  Milton,  along  with  such  men  as  Bacon 
and  Johnson,  among  those  in  whom  this  quality 
was  moderate  or  defective,  as  distinct  from  those, 
such  as  Shenstone,  Keats,  and  poets  generally,  in 
whom  it  was  evidently  great.  Now  there  is  much 
importance  in  this  separation  of  the  men  of  thought 
and  energy  on  the  one  hand,  who  act  outwards 
upon  nature,  and  whose  greatness  consists  in  such 
action,  fi"om  the  men  of  sensibility  on  the  other, 
who  are  tremulous  to  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
nature,  and  find  their  function  in  recording  and 
reproducing  them  ;  nor  is  Mr.  Ruskin  wrong 
when  he  places  Milton  among  the  men  of  thought 
and  dogma,  who  had  strength  within  themselves, 
and  whose  faculty  did  not  lie  mainly  in  the  tips 
of  their  outer  senses.  He  seems  to  be  unjust  to 
Milton,  howevei",  in  the  negative  part  of  his  crit- 
icism, which  denies  to  Milton  keenness  of  external 
perception  and  sensibility  to  natural  beauty  along 
with    his   moral   and   speculative   strength.      His 


XXll  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

minor  poems  have  much  of  their  charm  in  their 
sensuousness ;  this  is,  indeed,  the  word  that  would 
be  used  to  characterize  what  is  most  evident  in 
them.  By  Wordsworth  himself —  who  recalled 
our  poetry  to  truth  and  nature,  and  who  was  at 
war  with  almost  all  our  poets  from  Dryden  down- 
wards, precisely  because,  as  he  said,  they  had 
never  looked  at  nature  for  themselves,  but  had 
spoken  of  her  by  rote — the  accuracy  of  Milton's 
images  from  nature  was  never  impugned,  but 
was,  on  the  contrary,  asserted  and  exemphfied, 
and  held  up  by  way  of  example  ;  and  it  would 
take  much  argument  now  to  prove  that  the  sen- 
suousness of  Milton's  poetry  was  a  simulated  or 
merely  literary  sensuousness,  and  not  the  real 
sensuousness  of  a  man  who  delighted  in  the  fields, 
and  the  flowers,  and  the  clouds,  and  whose  mind 
teemed  with  recollections  of  them.  We  do  not 
find  in  Milton,  indeed,  that  universal  retentive- 
ness  of  objects  and  facts  of  all  kinds,  from  the 
oddities  of  street  life,  up  through  the  beauties  of 
sylvan  scenery,  to  the  splendors  of  celestial  space, 
which  we  find  in  Shakspeare,  and  to  which,  so  far 
as  facts  of  the  lower  or  more  uncouth  order  are 
admitted  along  with  those  of  the  higher,  a  certain 
humorous  lightness  of  disposition,  such  as  Milton 
did  not  possess,  seems  to  be  essential.  It  may  be 
also  that,  in  Milton  as  in  other  men,  there  had 
been  developed  a  kind  of  secondary  love  of  na- 
ture, as  already  transfused  and  attenuated  into 
literature,  and  seen  through  the  mist  of  beau- 
tiful speech.  All  in  all,  however,  as  it  was  cer- 
tainly the  bent  of  his  genius  to  express  itself  in 
sensuous  imaginations,  so  there  seems  to  have 
been  no  film  separating  him  from  the  world  of 
actual  existence,  whence  the  materials  for  these 


THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON.  XXlll 

imaginations  are  usually  drawn  ;  but  on  the  con- 
trai-y,  sucli  an  habitual  intimacy  of  his  senses  with 
whatever  in  nature  or  life  was  beautiful  or  im- 
pressive, that  whenever  his  fantasy  began  to 
work,  his  memory  was  ready  with  authentic 
forms,  sounds,  colors,  or  whatever  else  was  ne- 
cessary for  any  poetic  combination.  His  woods, 
his  flowers,  his  atmosphere,  are  the  woods,  the 
flowers,  and  the  atmosphere  of  genuine  English 
nature. 

Underneath  the  grace  and  the  flowers,  however, 
there  are  in  these  minor  poems  of  Milton  all  the 
signs  of  his  manly  strength.  We  have  called  them 
sensuous-ideal  in  their  general  character,  and  have 
spoken  of  them  as  being,  even  in  virtue  of  their 
singular  excellence  in  this  kind,  essentially  Mil- 
tonic  ;  but  they  are  Miltonic  also  in  a  higher  and 
more  complete  sense,  as  indicating  the  massiveness 
of  Milton's  moral,  and  the  height  of  his  intellec- 
tual, nature.  The  purity  of  tone  in  all  of  them 
is  as  perfect  as  the  literary  taste  ;  and  every  now 
and  then,  from  amid  the  softness  and  the  luxuriance 
there  breaks  forth  a  passage  of  luminous  specu- 
lative meaning  or  sublime  moral  maxim.  In  Go- 
mus  the  very  theme  is  the  inviolability  of  virtue 
by  all  the  powers  and  wiles  of  assailing  circum- 
stance; and  here,  as  also  in  the  later  poem  of 
Lycidas,  there  are  outbreaks  of  the  spirit  of  the 
future  polemic  and  stern  social  reformer. 

Just  before  Lycidas  was  written,  Milton's  moth- 
er had  died  (Aug.  3,  1637)  at  Horton,  where  she 
lies  buried.  From  his  father,  now  about  seven- 
ty-four years  of  age,  the  poet  not  long  after  ob- 
tained leave  to  make  a  continental  tour,  moi-n 
expressly  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  Italy.  He 
get  out  with  one  servant  towards  the  eud  of  the 


XXIV  THE    LIFE    OP    MILTON. 

year,  taking  with  him  some  letters  of  introduction, 
and  some  good  advice  from  Sir  Henry  Wotton, 
provost  of  Eton,  who  had  been  King  James's  am- 
bassador at  Venice.  He  was  kindly  received  at 
Paris  by  Lord  Scudamore,  the  English  ambassa- 
dor, who  introduced  him  to  Grotius,  then  ambas- 
sador in  Paris  for  Queen  Christina  of  Sweden, 
and  also  gave  him  letters  to  Eno;lish  merchants  in 
Italy.  He  went  to  Genoa  by  way  of  Nice,  and 
from  Genoa  to  Leghorn,  Pisa,  and  Florence.  At 
Florence  he  remained  two  months,  frequenting 
the  society  of  artists  and  men  of  letters.  From 
Florence  he  went  to  Siena,  and  thence  to  Rome, 
where  he  also  stayed  some  time  and  formed  some 
useful  acquaintances.  He  next  visited  Naples, 
where  he  received  much  attention  from  the  aged 
Giovanni  Battista  Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa,  the 
friend  and  patron  of  Tasso.  Manso  at  parting 
took  him  to  task  in  a  friendly  manner  for  his 
imprudence  in  speaking  too  frankly  of  religious 
matters.  From  Naples  it  was  Milton's  intention 
to  proceed  to  Sicily  and  Greece  ;  but  the  news 
which  he  received  of  the  imminence  of  a  civil 
war  in  his  native  land  determined  him  to  return. 
"  1  thought  it  dishonorable,"  he  says,  "  that  I 
should  be  travelling  at  my  ease  for  amusement, 
when  my  fellow-countrymen  at  home  were  fight- 
ing for  liberty."  Returning  northwards,  there- 
fore, he  reached  Rome  again,  where  he  was  told 
that  the  Jesuits  had  laid  a  plot  against  him ;  but 
though  he  remained  two  months  more  there,  and 
made  no  concealment  of  the  strength  of  his  Prot- 
estantism, he  was  not  molested.  From  Rome  he 
went  again  for  two  months  to  Florence  ;  thence 
to  Lucca,  and  so  across  the  Apennines,  through 
Bologna  and  Ferrara,  to  Venice.     Thence,  after 


THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON.  XXV 

a  month's  stay,  and  having  shipped  for  England 
the  books  he  had  bought  in  Italy,  he  travelled,  by 
Verona,  Milan,  and  the  Pennine  Alps,  to  Geneva, 
where  he  became  acquainted  with  the  theologian 
Diodati,  the  uncle  of  his  friend  Charles  ;  and  so 
through  France  back  again  to  England,  from 
which  he  had  been  absent  in  all  a  year  and  three 
months.  While  still  abroad,  Milton  had  heard  of 
the  death  of  his  friend  Charles  Diodati ;  and  on 
his  return  he  wrote  his  Latin  poem  entitled  Epi- 
taphium  Damonis  in  honor  of  his  memory. 

One  result  of  the  Italian  tour,  which  has  not 
perhaps  been  sufficiently  noted,  was  its  effect  in 
stimulating  his  literary  ambition.  While  in  Italy 
he  had  shown  about,  according  to  the  custom,  or 
had  recited  in  literary  circles,  some  of  his  juvenile 
compositions  in  Latin  and  English,  and  had  also 
written  some  additional  trifles,  among  which  were 
his  few  Italian  sonnets,  and  his  three  short  Latin 
poems,  Ad  Leonoram  Rom<B  canentem ;  and  the 
two  longer  ones,  entitled,  Mansus  and  Ad  Salsil- 
lum  poetam  Romanum  cegrotcmtem.  These  speci- 
mens of  his  taste  and  skill  had  won  him,  in  re- 
turn, complimentary  letters  and  copies  of  verses 
from  the  Italian  scholars  and  wits,  some  of  which  he 
thought  worth  preserving,  to  be  shown  afterwards 
to  his  less  appreciating  countrymen.  "  Gratified," 
he  says,  with  encomiums  of  this  kind,  "  which  the 
Italian  is  not  forward  to  bestow  on  men  of  this 
side  the  Alps,"  he  had  no  sooner  returned  to  Eng- 
land than  he  felt  the  desire  for  literary  production 
more  strongly  than  ever.  "  I  began,"  he  says, 
"  thus  far  to  assent  both  to  them  and  to  divers 
of  my  friends  here  at  home,  and  not  less  to  an 
inward  prompting  which  now  grew  daily  upon 
me,  that  by  labor  and  intent  study  (which  I  take 


XXVI  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

to  be  my  portion  in  this  life),  joined  with  the 
strong  propensity  of  nature,  I  might  perhaps 
leave  something  so  written  to  aftertimes  as  they 
should  not  willingly  let  it  die."  His  aspirations 
had  even  taken  a  certain  determinate  direction 
as  regarded  the  work  on  which  he  was  to  spend 
his  strength.  Knowing  that  "  it  would  be  hard  to 
arrive  even  at  the  second  rank  among  the  Latins," 
he  had  resolved  that  his  literary  labors  thenceforth 
should  be  chiefly  in  his  mother-tongue,  "  not  caring 
once  to  be  named  abroad,  though  perhaps  he  could 
attain  to  that,  but  content  with  these  British  isl- 
ands as  his  world."  He  had  resolved,  moreover, 
that  his  main  work  should  be  a  poem,  and  a  poem 
of  the  higher  order,  in  which  "  what  the  greatest 
and  choicest  wits  of  Athens,  Rome,  or  modern 
Italy,  and  those  Hebrews  of  old,  did  for  their 
country,"  he  "  in  his  proportion,  with  this  over 
and  above  of  being  a  Christian,"  might  do  for 
his.  As  to  the  precise  form  and  subject  of  such 
a  poem,  however,  he  had  not  made  up  his  mind ;  — 
whether  it  should  be  epic,  after  the  model  of  Ho- 
mer, Virgil,  and  Tasso,  and  if  epic,  what  king 
or  knight  of  British  history  before  the  Conquest 
should  be  chosen  as  the  hero ;  or  whether  it 
should  be  a  stately  drama,  in  which  something 
of  the  form  of  Sophocles  and  Euripides  should 
be  combined  with  still  higher  forms,  of  which  the 
Bible,  and  especially  the  Apocalypse,  afforded 
examples ;  or  whether,  finally,  it  should  be  some 
grand  lyric,  such  as  heathen  genius  had  hardly 
yet  attempted. 

Alas  !  these  schemes  and  ruminations  were  des- 
tined to  a  speedy  and  severe  interruption.  The 
civil  war,  prognostications  of  which  had  reached 
him  in  Italy  and  hastened  his  return,  was  now 


THE   LIFE    OP   MILTON.  XXVll 

about  to  begin  in  earnest ;  and  for  a  period  of 
twenty  years  Britain  was  to  be  the  scene  of  a  so- 
cial strife  such  as  had  been  scarce  paralleled  in 
the  world  before.  During  these  twenty  years 
there  was  very  little  literature  produced  in  Eng- 
land that  was  not  polemical  in  its  tenor.  There 
were  controversial  treatises  and  pamphlets  in 
abundance ;  there  were  also  satires  and  songs  for 
political  purposes,  and  full  of  political  allusions  ; 
but  of  pure  history,  pure  philosophical  writing,  or 
pure  poetry,  there  was  little.  The  men  of  talent 
from  whom  literature  of  such  kind  was  to  be  ex- 
pected were  either  dispersed  abroad,  or,  if  they 
remained  in  England,  were  whirled  along  in  the 
common  agitation.  In  the  lives  of  Shirley,  Wal- 
ler, Hobbes,  Davenant,  Cleveland,  Denham,  and 
Cowley,  and  even  in  those  of  men  like  Jeremy 
Taylor  and  Fuller,  the  effects  of  the  civil  wars  of 
Charles's  reign,  as  bending  them  somewhat,  both 
in  external  and  in  internal  respects,  out  of  what 
might  otherwise  have  been  their  course,  may  be 
traced  without  difficulty.  But  in  the  case  of  Mil- 
Ion  the  effect  is  infinitely  more  striking.  But  for 
the  civil  wars  we  should  have  known  but  half  the 
man.  In  his  case  there  was  a  preestablished  har- 
mony of  mind  with  the  great  national  revolution 
through  which  he  had  to  pass ;  there  were  ele- 
ments in  his  moral  and  intellectual  being  which 
actually  waited  for  the  convulsion  ;  nay,  of  him 
alone,  in  the  midst  of  the  Davenants,  and  Cow- 
leys,  and  "Wallers,  can  it  be  said  that  there  was 
something  in  his  very  notions  of  literature  itself 
which,  corresponding  as  it  did  by  a  profound  affin- 
ity to  the  new  Puritan  spirit  then  beating  in  the 
heart  of  the  English  people,  pointed  for  that  very 
reason  to  a  Hterary  development  which  should  be 


XXviii  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

no  mere  continuation  of  the  dregs  of  Elizabethan 
wit,  but  an  outburst  as  original  intellectually  as 
the  Puritan  movement  was  socially,  and  requiring 
partisanship  with  that  movement  as  its  explana- 
tion and  comment.     On  the  first  manifest  signs  of 
that  movement  he  consented,  as  he  says,  "  to  lay 
aside  his  singing-robes"  for  a   more   convenient 
season,  and  "  to  leave  a  calm  and  pleasing  solita- 
riness, fed  with  cheerful  and  confident  thoughts," 
in  order  to  "  embark  in  a  troubled  sea  of  noises 
and  hoarse  disputes."     He  imagined  that  a  year 
or  two  of  such  work,  to  which  he  felt  that  he  was 
lending  "  only  his  left  hand,"  would  be  all  that 
would  be  required  of  him.     But  once  engaged  in 
the  controversies  of  the  time,  he  was  led  on  and 
on  ;  and  for  the  space  of  full  twenty  years  we  see 
him  only  as  a  polemical  prose-wi'iter,  giving  and  . 
taking  blows  in  the  cause  of  the  Revolution,  and 
producing  nothing  at  all  in  verse  except  an  occa- 
sional Latin  scrap  or  epigram,  and  a  few  English 
sonnets  suggested  by  passing  occurrences.     To  at- 
tempt here  a  full  and  connected  narrative  of  this 
period  of  his  life  is  evidently  impossible ;  it  will 
be  sufficient  to  present  a  chronological  scheme  of 
the  main  facts,  including  a  list  of  his  successive 
publications. 

1640-42  (Milton  cetat.  31-33).  — The  Long 
Parliament  met  November  3,  1640.  Milton  had 
by  this  time  changed  his  mode  of  life.  The 
household  at  Horton  having  been  broken  up,  and 
his  father  having  gone  to  reside  at  Reading  with 
his  younger  son  Christopher,  then  a  barrister-at- 
law  and  of  royalist  politics,  Milton  had  taken 
lodgings  in  the  house  of  one  Russell,  a  tailor,  in 
St.  Bride's  Churchyard,  Fleet  Street.  Here  he 
took  to  lodge  and  board  with  him  his  two  young 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  XXIX 

nephews,  Edward  and  John  Philips,  then  about 
nine  or  ten  years  of  age,  the  sons  of  his  sister 
Anne,  now  married  for  the  second  time  to  a  Mr. 
Agar  of  the  Crown  Office.  The  arrangement 
seems  to  have  been  one  of  mere  kindness  at 
first ;  but  his  friends  having  suggested  to  him 
that  he  might  take  a  few  more  boys  to  educate, 
he  removed  in  1641  to  a  larger  house  in  Alders- 
gate  Street,  situated  in  a  garden,  and  out  of  the 
bustle  of  the  city.  Here  he  received  some  addi- 
tional pupils,  the  sons  of  wealthy  friends,  and  oc- 
cupied his  time  partly  in  educating  them  after  a 
peculiar  system  of  his  own,  and  partly  in  private 
studies.  It  was  in  these  circumstances  that  he 
wrote  his  first  pamphlet.  Amid  the  numerous 
matters  occupying  the  attention  of  Parliament,  — 
the  trial  of  Strafford,  &c.,  —  that  of  church  reform 
was  paramount.  The  root  of  the  evil,  it  was  felt 
by  the  Puritans,  was  in  the  prelatical  constitution 
of  the  Church  ;  and  already  there  were  petitions 
and  bills  having  for  their  object  nothing  less  than 
an  abolition  of  bishops,  deans,  and  chapters,  and 
all  Episcopal  forms,  and  a  reconstruction  of  the 
Church  of  England  after  the  Presbyterian  model. 
Into  this  controversy  Milton  threw  himself;  and, 
the  press  being  then  free  for  such  opinions,  he 
published  in  1641  a  treatise  or  bulky  pamphlet  in 
two  books,  in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  a  friend,  en- 
titled Of  Reformation,  touching  Church  Disci- 
pline in  England,  and  the  Causes  that  hitherto 
have  hindered  it.  The  treatise  answers  to  its 
name,  and  is  throughout  a  vehement  attack  on 
Prelacy  in  its  forms  and  essence.  It  helped 
to  infuriate  the  controversy  which  was  already 
waging.  A  defender  of  Episcopacy  appeared  in 
Hall,   Bishop  of  Norwich.     Hall  was  answered 


XXX  THE   LIFE    OP   MILTON. 

by  a  counterblast  from  five  Puritan  ministers, 
—  Stephen  Marshall,  Edward  Calaray,  Thomas 
Young  (Milton's  old  tutor),  Matthew  Newcomen, 
and  William  Spurstow,  —  who  clubbed  the  initials 
of  their  names  together  so  as  to  form  the  word 
"  Smectymnuus  ";  and  Archbishop  Usher  came  to 
the  rescue  of  Hall,  and  wrote  a  confutation  of 
Smectymnuus.  Milton  feeling  that  the  prelates 
were  likely  to  have  the  best  of  the  debate,  both 
in  learning  and  in  literary  talent,  unless  he  inter- 
fered, grappled  with  Usher  and  his  associates  in 
two  additional  pamphlets  :  the  one,  entitled  Of 
Prelatical  Episcopacy,  addressed  mainly  to  the 
question  of  the  apostolical  origin  of  Episcopacy; 
the  other,  which  is  much  the  longer,  entitled  The 
Reason  of  Church  Government  urged  against 
Prelacy.  Nor  was  this  all.  Bishop  Hall  having 
himself  written  a  reply  to  Smectymnuus,  entitled 
The  Remonstrants  Defence,  Milton  produced  a 
fourth  tract,  written  in  the  form  of  a  dialogue, 
and  entitled  Animadversions  upon  the  Remon- 
strant's Defence,  &c. ;  and  finally,  these  "  Ani- 
madversions" having  drawn  forth  an  anonymous 
reply,  supposed  to  be  by  a  son  of  Bishop  Hall, 
in  which  Milton's  character  was  scurrilously  at- 
tacked, the  controversy  was  wound  up  (1642) 
by  Milton's  Apology  against  a  Pamphlet  called 
'^A  Modest  Confutation  of  the  Animadversions 
upon  the  Remonstrant  against  Smectymnuus." 

1643-45  (Milton  cetat.  34-36).  — The  civil 
war  had  now  fairly  begun.  The  king  had  his 
headquarters  at  Oxford,  and  his  troops  and  those 
of  the  Parliament  were  fighting  for  the  posses- 
sion of  the  country.  The  Westminster  Assembly 
had  met  to  help  the  Parliament  in  discussing  the 
religious  question.     In  the  midst  of  this  confusion 


THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON.  XXXl 

Milton  took  a  step  usually  taken  in  quieter  times. 
"About  Wliitsuntide  "  (1643),  says  his  nephew 
Philips,  "  he  took  a  journey  into  the  country,  no- 
body about  him  certainly  knowing  the  reason,  or 
that  it  was  more  than  a  journey  of  recreation. 
After  a  month's  stay  from  home,  he  returns  a 
married  man  who  set  out  a  bachelor ;  his  wife 
being  Mary,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Mr.  Richard 
Powell,  then  a  justice  of  the  peace  of  Forest 
Hill,  near  Shotover  in  Oxfordshire."  There  had 
been  a  previous  acquaintance  and  some  money 
transactions  between  the  two  families.  What 
occurred  after  the  marriage  is  known  to  every 
one.  Being  no  Minerva,  but  a  simple  and  ap- 
parently rather  stupid  country-girl,  "  accustomed 
to  dance  with  king's  officers  at  home,"  the  young 
wife  found  the  life  she  was  leading  intolerable, 
and  could  see  nothing  in  her  husband  but  a  man 
of  harsh  and  morose  ways,  whom  she  could  not 
understand,  and  who  was  always  at  his  books. 
She  asked  leave  to  return  home  on  a  short  visit, 
and,  having  gone,  she  flatly  refused  to  come  back. 
Her  parents  abetted  her  in  the  refusal,  and  seem, 
among  other  things,  to  have  alleged  their  son-in- 
law's  politics  as  a  reason,  —  they  being  royalists. 
Milton's  conduct  on  the  occasion  was  most  charac- 
teristic. Where  other  men  would  have  remained 
quiet,  or,  if  so  inclined,  have  consoled  themselves 
in  secret,  he  made  his  case  the  matter  of  public 
argument.  In  a  subsequent  sketch,  indeed,  of 
his  own  life  about  this  time,  he  speaks  as  if  it 
was  less  any  private  reason,  than  the  systematic 
prosecution  of  a  path  of  activity  which  he  had 
marked  out  for  himself,  that  led  him  to  the  pub- 
lic discussion  in  which  he  now  engaged.  While 
other  men  were  fighting  for  liberty,  he  says,  he 


XXXll  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

had  resolved  to  do  what  he  could  for  the  same 
great  cause  by  expounding  the  true  theory  of 
liberty  ;  and  having  already  written  on  ecclesi- 
astical liberty,  and  seen  that  question  brought  by 
events  to  some  sort  of  settlement,  he  now  saw 
remaining  the  equally  important  questions  of  pri- 
vate liberty  and  civil  liberty.  This  is  no  doubt 
substantially  accurate  ;  and  Milton's  views  on  the 
marriage  question  were  no  doubt  so  properly  a 
part  of  his  general  philosophy,  that  they  might 
have  been  evolved  in  the  mere  course  of  specula- 
tion, without  the  stimulus  of  any  private  interest 
in  the  matter.  On  the  whole,  however,  their  con- 
nection with  his  own  case  is  undeniable.  It  is  as  if 
he  said,  —  "I  have  found  myself  in  circumstances, 
in  which  a  fundamental  rule  of  society,  as  it  exists, 
has  come  in  conflict  with  my  comfort  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  lead  me  to  examine  its  validity  by 
the  higher  laws  and  principles  on  which  it  pro- 
fesses to  rest ;  and  as  I  am  not  a  man  to  do  any- 
thing underhand,  I  here  publish  my  views,  in 
justification  of  whatever  I  may  see  fit  to  do." 
He  published  in  quick  succession  four  tracts  on 
this  subject: — The  Doctrine  mid  Discipline  of 
Divorce  restored,  to  the  good  of  both  Sexes,  from 
the  Bondage  of  Canon  Law,  &c.  (1644,  in  which 
year  two  editions  appeared,  both  addressed  "  to 
the  Parliament  of  England,  with  the  Assembly  ")  ; 
The  Judgment  of  Martin  Bucer  touching  Divorce 
(a  translated  series  of  extracts,  also  published  in 
1644)  ;  Tetrachordon,  or  Expositions  upon  the 
four  chief  places  in  Scripture  which  treat  of 
Marriage  or  Nullities  in  Marriage  (published  in 
1645,  and  addressed  to  the  Parliament);  and  Go- 
lasterion ;  a  Reply  to  a  Nameless  Answer  against 
the  Doctrine  and  Discipline  of  Divorce  (1645). 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  XXXlll 

The  doctrine  in  all  these  tracts  is,  that  moral  in- 
compatibility is  as  good  a  ground  for  divorce  as 
conjugal  infidelity,  if"  not  a  better  —  a  doctrine 
leadiijg  to  numerous  applications  which  he  does 
not  state,  and  which  it  is  needless  to  say  no  civil- 
ized society  has  yet  seen  fit  to  adopt.  One  notices 
in  the  tracts,  too,  a  singular  disposition  to  treat 
the  question  as  if  it  were  entirely  a  man's  ques- 
tion ;  and  indeed  they  are  full  of  those  notions  of 
the  inferiority  of  women  which  Milton  held  all  his 
life,  and  which  are  generally  repudiated  with  in- 
dignation by  those  who  now  adopt  views  similar 
to  his  as  to  the  theory  of  the  marriage  bond.  At 
the  time,  the  pamphlets  produced  some  sensation, 
and  the  author  was  nearly  being  taken  to  task  for 
them  by  Parliament  at  the  instance  of  the  Pres- 
byterian divines  in  the  Assembly.  As  regards 
Milton  himself,  his  views  were  never  carried  out, 
the  king's  waning  fortunes  having  made  it  con- 
venient for  his  wife's  family  to  bring  about  a  rec 
onciliation,  the  effect  of  which  was,  that  towards 
the  end  of  1645  Mrs.  Milton  was  again  domiciled 
with  her  husband.  It  was  not  to  the  house  in 
Aldersgate  Street,  however,  that  she  returned,  but 
to  a  larger  house  which  Milton  had  taken  in  Bar- 
bican, and  which  was  then  getting  ready.  Here, 
besides  her  husband  and  his  pupils,  she  found  old 
Mr.  Milton  the  father,  who  had  been  obliged  dur- 
ing her  absence  to  leave  his  younger  son's  house 
in  Reading,  in  consequence  of  the  surrender  of 
that  town  to  the  Parliament,  and  to  take  up  his 
quarters  with  his  son  John.  It  remains  to  add, 
before  quitting  Aldersgate  Street,  that  here  Milton 
wrote,  besides  his  divorce  pamphlets,  his  tract 
On  Education,  addressed  to  Mr.  Samuel  Hartlib, 
and  his  noble  Areopagitica,  or  Speech  for  the  Lib- 

VOL.  I.  c 


XXXIV  THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

erty  of  Unlicensed  Printing.  Both  were  publish- 
ed in  1644,  and  they  contain  Milton's  views  on 
questions  of  great  public  interest  at  the  time ;  — 
the  first,  his  views  on  the  state  of  the  universities, 
and  his  plan  of  a  gymnasium  which  should  super- 
sede both  them  and  the  grammar  schools,  and  do 
the  work  of  both  better  in  a  much  shorter  time  ; 
and  the  second,  his  views  on  the  liberty  of  the 
press,  in  the  form  of  an  appeal  to  Parliament  to 
reconsider  an  order  they  had  just  passed  sub- 
jecting books  to  a  censorship.  When  we  add, 
that  about  the  same  time  Milton  prepared  for  the 
press  the  first  edition  of  his  poems  (published  in 
1645,  in  a  small  volume,  by  Humphrey  Moseley, 
the  Tonson  of  his  day,  and  containing,  besides  the 
pieces  in  English  and  Latin  already  named,  some 
sonnets  written  in  the  mean  time),  it  will  be  seen 
that  there  was  industry  enough  in  the  house  in 
Aldersgate  Street  during  the  absence  of  Mrs. 
Milton. 

1646-48  (Milton  cetat.  37-39).  — Mrs.  Milton's 
return,  indeed,  seems  rather  to  have  interrupted 
than  to  have  forwarded  his  literary  activity.  One 
reason  of  this  may  have  been  that  she  brought 
her  whole  family  after  her.  Her  father,  mother, 
brothers,  and  sisters  were  in  Oxford  when  it  sur- 
rendered to  the  parliamentary  army  in  June,  1646 ; 
and,  being  thus  driven  from  home,  they  came  up 
to  London,  and  were  kindly  received  by  Milton 
into  his  house  till  matters  could  be  better  arrang- 
ed. As  old  Mr.  Milton  was  still  there,  and  as 
Milton's  first  daughter  Anne  had  just  been  born 
(July  29,  1646),  the  house  seems  to  have  been 
inconveniently  crowded  ;  at  least  Philips  hints  as 
much  when  he  says  that  after  their  departure  it 
"  looked  again  like  a  house  of  the  muses."     This 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  XXXV 

cannot  have  taken  place  prior  to  the  first  of  Jan- 
uary 1646-7,  when  the  father-in-law  died  in  Mil- 
ton's house.  Milton's  own  father  died  in  the 
March  following,  at  the  age  of  eighty-four  or  up- 
wards. These  deaths,  the  return  of  the  Powells 
to  Oxfordshire,  and  probably  also  a  falling  off  in 
the  number  of  Milton's  pupils,  determined  him  to 
give  up  his  house  in  the  Barbican,  and  to  remove 
(1647)  to  a  smaller  one  in  Holborn,  having  its 
back  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  He  does  not  seem 
to  have  continued  to  receive  pupils  long  after  this 
time,  but  to  have  been  content  with  his  scholarly 
studies  and  the  quiet  exercise  of  his  pen.  It 
has  been  remarked  by  Mr.  Keightley,  that  Mil- 
ton was  fond  of  the  humble  literary  practice  of 
compilation,  when  there  was  nothing  better  for 
him  to  do ;  and  accordingly  it  seems  to  have  been 
during  the  years  (1646-1648)  when  he  was  living 
in  the  Barbican  and  at  Holborn,  waiting  for  the 
farther  issue  of  events,  that  he  prepared  for  his 
own  use,  or  for  that  of  his  pupils,  some  of  those 
compilations  which  he  afterwards  published.  At 
this  time,  at  all  events,  he  wrote  a  portion  of  his 
History  of  England.  In  poetry  he  still  did  next 
to  nothing. 

1648-9  (Milton  cetat.  40).  —  On  the  30th  Jan- 
uary 1648-9  Charles  was  beheaded,  and  England 
became  a  Commonwealth,  presided  over  by  a 
council  of  state,  served  in  the  field  by  Cromwell 
and  other  generals,  and  assisted  in  legislation  by 
the  Rump  Parliament.  The  Revolution  had  thus 
been  borne  on  by  its  bolder  spirits  to  a  stage  at 
which,  while  the  outside  world  stood  aghast,  mul- 
titudes of  those  in  Britain  itself  who  had  followed 
it  so  far,  including  the  Scots  and  the  Presbyterians 
generally,  fell  off  or  turned  reactionary.     At  this 


XXSVl  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

crisis  Milton  came  forward  to  justify  what  the 
bolder  spirits  had  done,  and  "to  compose  the  minds 
of  the  people,"  naturally  unsettled  by  the  charges, 
flung  upon  them  on  all  sides,  that  they  had  mur- 
dered their  sovereign.  Within  a  week  or  two  after 
the  execution  of  Charles  he  published  a  short 
pamphlet,  the  full  title  of  which  it  is  worth  while 
to  quote :  —  The  Tenure  of  Kings  and  Magis- 
trates ;  proving  that  it  is  lawful,  and  hath  been 
held  so  through  all  ages,  for  any  who  have  the  pow- 
er, to  call  to  account  a  tyrant  or  wicked  king,  and, 
after  due  conviction,  to  depose  and  put  him  to 
death,  if  the  ordinary  magistrate  have  neglected 
or  denied  to  do  it ;  and  that  they  who  of  late  so 
much  blame  deposing  \i.  e.,  the  Presbyterians] 
are  the  men  that  did  it  themselves.  So  seasona- 
ble an  interposition  could  not  be  overlooked  by 
the  government  of  the  Commonwealth  ;  and  as 
Milton  was  personally  known  to  Bradshaw  and 
others  of  the  council  of  state,  they  were  empow- 
ered to  consult  with  him  as  to  his  willingness  to 
accept  the  office  of  foreign  or  Latin  secretary  to 
the  council.  He  did  accept  the  office,  with  a  sal- 
ary, as  it  appears,  of  about  £290  per  annum, 
and  his  appointment  is  dated  the  15th  of  March 
1648-9.  In  order  to  be  near  the  scene  of  his 
duties,  he  removed  from  Holborn  to  lodgings  at 
Charing  Cross;  he  was  subsequently  in  the  course 
of  the  year  accommodated  with  i-ooms  at  White- 
hall, but  only  till  an  official  residence  which  had 
been  assigned  him  in  Scotland  Yard  could  be  got 
ready.  Prior  to  his  acceptance  of  the  Latin 
secretaryship  he  had  published  a  pamphlet  enti- 
tled Observations  on  Articles  of  Peace  between  the 
Earl  of  Ormond  and  the  Irish  Rebels,  in  which  is 
discussed  the  policy  of  the  late  king  in  the  matter 
of  Irish  Popery  and  Presbyterianism. 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  XXXVll 

1649-53  (Milton  cBtat.  40-44).  —  Milton's  offi- 
cial duties  consisted  in  preparing  drafts  of  such 
letters  in  Latin  as  the  council  desired  from  time 
to  time  to  address  to  foreign  princes,  governments, 
and  ambassadors ;  and  a  series  of  fortj-six  such 
letters,  written  by  him  for  the  council,  and  the 
publication  of  which  was  prevented  during  his  life- 
time, was  edited  from  his  papers  after  his  death. 
But  much  more  important  work  was  devolved  on 
Milton  by  the  council.  The  famous  Ikon  Basilike 
had  just  appeared,  and  was  circulating  in  hundreds 
of  copies  thi'ough  the  country,  representing  the 
late  king,  on  the  professed  authority  of  his  own 
private  papers,  as  a  saint  ever  on  his  knees  during 
his  hours  of  solitude  and  misfortune,  and  doing 
much,  therefore,  to  win  popular  acquiescence  in 
the  use  of  the  term  "royal  martyr,"  as  already 
posthumously  appHed  to  him.  By  way  of  coun- 
teractive, Milton  wrote  and  published  a  long 
pamphlet  entitled  EiKovoKTiaoTTjg,  in  which,  without 
questioning  the  authenticity  of  the  pretended 
manifesto  of  royalty,  he  criticizes  it  mercilessly. 
The  pi-eparation  of  this  pamphlet  must  have  oc- 
cupied him  during  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
year  1649  ;  but  it  was  hardly  finished  when  a 
still  harder  piece  of  work  was  required  of  him. 
Charles  II.,  then  a  refugee  in  Holland,  had  got 
the  great  scholar  Salmasius,  alias  Claude  de  Sau- 
maise,  of  the  university  of  Leyden,  to  undertake 
the  advocacy  of  his  cause  in  a  treatise  such  as 
might  be  submitted  to  the  learned  throughout  Eu- 
rope ;  and  the  Continent  was  now  ringing  with 
the  fame  of  the  Defensio  Regia  pro  Carolo  Pri- 
ma ad  Carolum  Secundum  which  Salmasius  had 
published.  Fearful  of  the  damage  that  such  a 
work  might  do  abroad,  the    English  council  of 


XXXVm  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

state  bethought  themselves  of  their  secretary  as 
the  man  to  answer  it  suitably.  On  the  8th  of  Jan- 
uary 1649-50,  it  was  ordered  by  the  council  "  that 
Mr.  Milton  do  prepare  something  in  answer  to 
the  book  of  Salmasius,  and,  when  he  hath  done 
it,  bring  it  to  the  council."  In  execution  of  this 
commission,  Milton  prepared  his  famous  First 
Defence  for  the  People  of  England ;  or.  Pro 
Populo  Anglicano  Defensio,  contra  Glaudii  ano- 
nymi  cdias  Salmasii  Defensionem  Regiam,  the  or- 
der for  the  publication  of  which  appears  in  the 
council-minutes  under  date  December  23,  1650. 
It  has  been  stated  that  Milton  received  £1000  for 
the  performance ;  but  the  minutes  of  council  ex- 
hibit nothing  more  than  a  vote  of  thanks.  The 
success  of  the  treatise  was  infinitely  beyond  what 
might  have  been  expected.  Salmasius  found  him- 
self assailed  in  his  philosophy,  in  his  Latinity,  and 
in  his  powers  of  opprobrious  rhetoric,  by  a  man 
who  was  more  than  his  match  in  all ;  and  it  is 
even  said  that  his  death,  which  occurred  not  long 
afterwards,  was  caused  by  chagrin  at  his  loss  of 
credit.  Satisfied  with  his  triumph,  Milton  rested 
from  literary  exertion,  except  of  a  pi'ivate  kind, 
for  about  two  years.  It  was  during  this  time  that 
he  removed  from  Scotland  Yard  to  a  house  in 
"  Petty  France,  Westminster,  opening  into  St. 
James'  Park,"  which  house  (afterwards  occupied 
by  Bentham)  he  continued  to  live  in  till  the  Res- 
toration. It  was  about  this  time,  also,  and  appar- 
ently in  the  house  in  Petty  France,  that  he  was 
visited  by  the  great  calamity  of  his  life  —  his 
blindness.  From  a  letter  on  the  subject  written 
by  him  at  a  later  period,  it  appears  that  his  eye- 
sight had  begun  to  fail  as  early  as  1644,  when  he 
was  about  thirty-five  years  of  age,  and  that  the 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  XXXIX 

process  of  obscuration  was  so  gradual  that  it  was 
not  till  about  1650  or  1651  that  total  blindness 
was  threatened.  The  preparation  of  the  treatise 
against  Salmasius  was  beheved  by  himself  to 
have  hastened  the  fatal  result.  At  all  events, 
by  the  end  of  the  year  1653  Milton  was  totally 
blind,  and  the  fact  of  his  blindness  was  publicly 
talked  of  both  by  his  friends  and  his  enemies. 
The  fatal  affection  was  of  the  kind  called  gutta 
Serena  ;  and  Milton  himself  tells  that  it  left  his 
eyes  perfectly  clear  and  without  any  mark,  speck, 
or  external  disfigurement  whatever.  It  may  have 
been  while  the  blindness  was  not  yet  total,  but 
only  nearly  so,  that  he  sustained  what  even  for 
him,  in  such  circumstances,  must  have  been  anoth- 
er great  loss,  and  which  was  certainly  a  great  loss 
for  his  children.  This  was  the  death  of  his  wife, 
the  precise  date  of  which  has  not  been  discovered, 
though  it  was  either  in  1652  or  1653.  She  left 
three  children,  all  daughters  : —  the  eldest,  Anne, 
about  seven  years  of  age  ;  the  second,  Mary,  about 
five ;  and  the  third,  Deborah,  a  mere  infant  in 
arras.  Although  she  may  not  have  been  the  fit 
person  to  be  the  wife  of  Milton,  one  cannot  but 
imagine  the  house  in  Petty  France  more  desolate 
from  her  absence  ;  the  blind  and  austere  widower 
left  in  one  part  of  it  to  contemplations  in  whicli 
some  thoughts  of  Mary  Powell,  as  she  was  when 
he  first  bore  her  away  from  her  Oxfordshire  home, 
can  hardly  have  been  wanting ;  and  the  poor,  moth- 
erless children,  known  to  him  only  as  tiny  voices 
of  complaint  going  about  in  the  darkness  near, 
with  none  but  an  alien  voice  any  more  to  hush  or 
overawe  them ! 

1653-1658   (Milton  detat.  44-49). -—Notwith- 
standing his  blindness,  Milton  continued   in  the 


xl  THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

active  discharge  of  his  duties  as  Latin  secretary 
during  the  whole  protectorate  of  Cromwell,  which 
began  on  the  16th  of  December  1653,  and  ter- 
minated on  Cromwell's  death  on  the  3d  of  Sep- 
tember 1658.  Between  seventy  and  eighty 
Latin  letters,  written  by  him  in  Oliver's  name, 
are  included  in  the  collection  of  his  state  letters ; 
and  besides  these  he  wrote  a  Latin  state  paper 
of  some  length  on  the  subject  of  the  Protector's 
dijBferences  with  the  Spanish  court.  He  had, 
however,  an  assistant  in  his  office  who  relieved 
him  of  a  part  of  the  work ;  and  there  is  a  coun- 
cil order,  dated  April  17,  1655,  reducing  his  sal- 
ary to  £150  per  annum,  with  the  proviso  that  the 
same  should  be  paid  to  him  during  his  life.  It 
seems,  however,  that  both  Milton  and  his  friend 
Andrew  Marvell,  who  was  latterly  associated 
with  him  in  the  office,  received  an  actual  salary 
of  £200  a  year.  That  Milton  was  not  only  an 
admirer  of  Ci'omwell's  genius,  —  he  had  already 
celebi'ated  him  in  a  sonnet  as  "  Cromwell,  our 
chief  of  men," —  but  also  an  entire  believer  in 
the  necessity  and  the  advantage  of  his  govern- 
ment, is  proved  by  the  tenor  of  his  writings 
during  the  Protectorate.  These  consisted  of 
three  pamphlets  growing  out  of  the  Defensio  pro 
Populo  Anglicano.  As  early  as  1651,  indeed,  an 
anonymous  reply  to  this  treatise  had  appeared ; 
but  Milton,  who  attributed  it  to  Bishop  Bram- 
hall,  left  the  confutation  of  it  to  his  nephew 
John  Philips,  and  only  revised  what  Philips 
had  written.  Another  work  having  appeared 
abroad,  however,  in  1652,  with  the  title  Regit 
Sanguinis  Glamor  ad  Codwn  adversus  Parri- 
cidas  Anglicanos,  Milton,  who  was  grossly  and 
calumniously  attacked  in  it,  and  represented  as  a 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  xli 

blind  monster,  thought  it  fit  to  reply  in  person. 
The  real  author  of  the  work  was  the  Frenchman 
Peter  DumouHn^  afterwards  a  prebendary  of 
Canterbury ;  but  the  reputed  author  at  the  time 
was  Alexander  More,  a  Scotchman,  settled  in 
France,  who  had  been  concerned  in  seeing  it 
through  the  press ;  and  against  him  Milton  direct- 
ed the  full  force  of  his  vengeance.  In  the  De- 
fensio  Secunda  pro  Populo  Anglicano,  which  was 
not  published  till  1654,  Milton  meets  the  personal 
accusations  of  his  antagonist,  and  retaliates  with 
scurrilities  quite  as  coarse  and  offensive,  though 
doubtless  better  founded ;  but  he  also  returns  to 
the  main  question,  in  the  course  of  the  discussion 
of  which  he  introduces  a  splendid  panegyric  on 
Cromwell,  and  brief  eulogistic  sketches  of  some 
of  the  other  heroes  of  the  Commonwealth.  Not 
content  with  what  he  had  said  in  his  own  defence 
in  this  pamphlet,  he  followed  it  up  by  another 
entitled  Authoris  pro  se  Defensio  contra  Alexan- 
drum  Morum,  Ecclesiasten  (1655)  ;  and  More 
having  rejoined,  he  wound  up  with  Authoris  ad 
Alexatidri  Mori  Supplementutn  Responsio,  pub- 
lished in  the  same  year.  These  pamphlets  must 
necessarily  have  been  written  by  the  method  of 
dictation ;  and  in  the  first  of  them  there  is  a  pas- 
sage written  with  express  reference  to  his  blind- 
ness. During  the  remaining  three  years  of  the 
Protectorate,  Milton  had  leisure  to  fall  back  upon 
the  compilations  which  he  had  on  hand.  During 
the  same  period  he  married  his  second  wife, 
Catherine  Woodcock,  daughter  of  a  Captain 
Woodcock  of  Hackney,  of  whom  little  or  noth- 
ing is  known.  The  marriage  took  place  on  the 
12th  November  1656,  by  civil  contract;  and  in 
February  1657-58  Milton  was  again  left  a  wid- 


xlii  THE    LIFE    OP    MILTON. 

ower  by  the  death  of  his  wife  in  childbirth.  He 
has  testified  his  affection  for  her  in  a  well-known 
sonnet. 

1658-1660  (Milton  (Btat.  49-51).— The  twen- 
ty months  which  followed  the  death  of  Cromwell 
were  a  time  of  varying  anarchy  and  uncertainty, 
in  the  midst  of  which  events  slowly  shaped  them- 
selves towards  one  inevitable  issue,  which  men 
began  to  think  of  by  themselves  long  before  they 
dared  to  speak  of  it  to  one  another,  —  the  res- 
toration of  Charles  II.  The  state  of  Milton's 
mind  and  the  course  of  his  life  during  these  per- 
plexing months  are  to  be  inferred  from  what  re- 
mains of  his  writings  during  them.  As  Latin 
secretary  he  wrote  eleven  letters  for  Richard 
Cromwell,  and  two  letters  in  the  name  of  the 
Restored  Parliament  after  Richard's  abdication. 
The  last  letter  is  dated  May  15,  1659,  after 
which  we  hear  no  more  of  Milton  officially.  But 
as  a  citizen  he  was  not  idle ;  and  if  the  resolution 
and  the  reasonings  of  one  man  could  have  main- 
tained republicanism  in  England,  and  kept  the 
door  fast  against  the  return  of  royalty,  whether 
accompanied  by  Prelacy  or  by  Presbytery,  the 
work  would  have  been  done  by  Milton.  His  re- 
vived anxiety  on  the  religious  question  was  ex- 
hibited in  two  tracts,  both  written  in  1659,  and 
addressed  to  Parliament ;  the  one  entitled  A 
Treatise  of  Civil  Power  in  Ecclesiastical  Causes, 
showing  that  it  is  not  lawful  for  any  power  on 
earth  to  compel  in  matters  of  religion  ;  and  the 
other.  Considerations  touching  the  likeliest  means 
to  remove  Hirelings  out  of  the  Church  ;  wherein 
is  also  discoursed  of  Tithes,  Church  Fees,  and 
Church  Bevenues,  and  lohether  any  maintenance 
of  ministers  can  he  settled  by  law.     As  these  tracts 


THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON.  xliii 

were  intended  by  their  author  to  stem  what  he 
considered  a  return  of  the  national  mind  towards 
intolerance  in  religion,  so  his  anxiety  with  respect 
to  what  was  more  properly  the  political  reaction 
was  shown  in  A  Letter  to  a  Friend  concerning  the 
Ruptures  of  the  Commonwealth  (dated  October 
1659,  though  not  then  published),  and  in  a 
subsequent  more  public  pamphlet  entitled  7%e 
Ready  and  Easy  Way  to  establish  a  Free  Com- 
monwealth, and  the  excellence  thereof  compared 
with  the  inconveniencies  and  dangers  of  readmit- 
ting Kingship  into  this  nation.  The  views  ad- 
dressed in  this  pamphlet  to  the  public  at  large 
were  even  recapitulated  by  him  at  the  last  hour 
for  the  private  eye  of  General  Monk,  in  a 
short  letter  headed  The  Present  Means  and 
Brief  Delineation  of  a  Commonwealth,  easy  to 
he  put  in  practice  and  without  delay.  Monk's 
mind,  however,  was  better  made  up  than  Milton's 
as  to  the  ease  or  difficulty  of  the  solution  in  ques- 
tion ;  and  the  last  act  of  the  despairing  republi- 
can was  to  publish  Brief  Notes  upon  a  Late  Ser- 
mon titled  '•'■The  Fear  of  God  and  the  King" 
preached  a7id  since  published  by  Matthew  Griffith, 
D.  D.,  and  Chaplain  to  the  late  King.  No  Blind, 
Guides  was  the  title  as  well  as  the  tenor  of  a 
short  answer  to  this  criticism,  written  by  L'Es- 
trange  the  essayist;  and  in  May  1660  Charles 
II.  was  on  the  throne.  Milton,  as  almost  comins; 
within  the  doomed  category  of  the  regicides,  was 
for  some  time  in  danger  of  being  included  among 
those  whom  the  new  government  exempted  from 
amnesty.  His  more  obnoxious  writings  were 
called  in  by  proclamation,  and  publicly  burnt  by 
the  hands  of  the  hangman  ;  he  was  actually  in 
custody  after  the  Act  of  Indemnity   had   been 


Xliv  THE    LIFE    OP    MILTON. 

passed ;  and  that  he  escaped  finally  without  pun- 
ishment is  said  to  have  been  owing  chiefly  to  the 
intercession  of  the  poet  Davenant. 

The  period  of  Milton's  life  which  we  have  thus 
hastily  traversed,  extending  from  his  thirty-second 
to  his  fifty-second  year,  and  coinciding,  therefore, 
with  what  may  be  called  his  middle  life  or  man- 
hood, —  was,  we  would  again  observe,  all  but  en- 
tirely a  period  of  polemical  prose-writing.  The 
four-and-twenty  separate  pamphlets,  treatises,  &c., 
which  he  wrote  during  these  twenty  years,  make 
in  all,  when  collected,  three  or  four  goodly  vol- 
umes ;  while  the  stray  sonnets  and  other  metrical 
scraps,  in  which,  during  these  years,  he  hinted 
rather  than  asserted  that  he  had  not  parted  with 
his  title  as  a  poet,  do  not  amount  to  more  than  a 
few  pages.  The  reader  will  do  well  to  note  this 
interpolation  of  a  middle  period  of  prose  polemics 
between  a  poetic  youth  and  an  old  age  dedicated 
to  poetry  again,  as  a  significant  fact  in  the  life  of 
Milton.  It  arose,  as  we  have  seen,  from  an  im- 
perative necessity  of  the  times,  which  affected 
other  lives  besides  his,  and  the  result  of  which 
in  the  aggregate  was  an  apparent  break  or  va- 
riation in  our  literary  history,  coextensive  with 
the  entire  period  of  Puritan  ascendency.  But 
that  this  fact  in  the  general  life  of  the  nation 
should  be  illustrated  so  visibly,  and  with  such 
mechanical  exactness,  in  the  life  of  Milton,  marks 
him  out  as  preeminently,  in  literary  respects,  the 
representative  of  his  age.  All  the  other  wits  and 
writers  of  any  note  were  on  the  other  side,  and 
therefore  represent  the  contemporary  mind  of 
England  only  negatively;  in  him  alone  among 
the  writers  have  we  a  colossus,  marching,  by  the 
law  of  his  own  independent  constitution,  in  the 


THE   LIFE    OF    MILTON.  xlv 

direction  of  the  movement  and  in  the  midst  of 
it,  and  capable,  therefore,  of  illustrating  it  posi- 
tively. 

Milton  was  fitted  for  the  part  he  performed  in 
connection  with  the  Puritan  movement  by  that 
very  peculiarity  of  constitution  to  which  we 
have  already  referred  as  distinguishing  him 
from  most  poets.  Poets  generally,  it  is  sup- 
posed, are  and  ought  to  be  characterized  by  an 
excess  of  sensibility  over  principle,  —  a  certain 
mobility  of  the  whole  mind  and  temper,  rather 
than  the  prevalence  in  the  mind  of  any  one 
moral  mood  or  gesture.  Milton,  however,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  one  of  a  class  of  poets,  claiming 
also  such  poets  as  Dante  and  Wordsworth,  of 
whom  this  cannot  be  said.  "Whatever  his  sen- 
sibility, whatever  the  range  and  freedom  of  his 
imagination,  he  was  a  man  at  the  basis  of 
whose  nature  was  a  moral  austerity,  compacted 
of  certain  definite  and  deliberate  conclusions  as 
to  what  was  right  or  wrong,  allowed  or  forbid- 
den, everlastingly  true  and  expedient,  or  ever- 
lastingly false  and  pernicious.  Being  such,  he 
was  necessarily,  in  relation  to  the  society  in 
which  he  moved,  a  man  of  dogma  and  assevera- 
tion as  well  as  a  poet.  Possibly  this  alone  might 
account  for  the  part  he  took  in  the  social  contro- 
versies of  the  time,  and  for  the  unusual  combina- 
tion he  presents  of  the  reformer  with  the  poet ; 
for  generally  such  a  natui-e,  by  reason  of  its  dis- 
satisfaction with  much  that  exists,  will  ally  itself 
to  what  seems  the  innovative  or  progressive  ten- 
dency ;  whereas  that  absence  of  opinion,  except 
on  matters  of  taste,  which  is  believed  to  charac- 
terize poets  and  artists  as  a  class,  will  in  itself 
usually  function  as  an  opinion  in  favor  of  things 


Xlvi  THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

as  they  are.  In  order  to  account  fully,  however, 
for  Milton's  thorough  identification  of  himself 
with  the  most  advanced  social  tendencies  and  as- 
pirations of  his  age,  we  must  think  not  only  of 
the  strength  of  the  moral  or  dogmatic  element  in 
him,  but  also  of  the  peculiar  effects  of  this  dog- 
matic habit  when  associated  with  a  most  coura- 
geous and  inquisitive  intellect.  No  man  of  the 
time  was  more  resolute  in  asserting  that  right  of 
free  thought,  the  recognition  of  which,  as  applied 
to  the  Bible,  he  regarded  as  the  essence  of  Prot- 
estantism ;  no  man  spurned  more  angrily  all 
trammels  which  tradition,  authority,  and  custom 
would  impose  on  a  mind  already  sufficiently 
bound,  as  he  thought,  by  its  own  idea  of  alle- 
giance to  its  Maker.  Hence,  in  his  conclusions 
on  social  questions,  he  came  uniformly  to  occupy 
ground  on  the  farthest  verge  of  the  speculation 
of  the  time,  so  far  as  it  still  acknowledged  the 
Christian  creed  and  the  code  of  Christian  ethics. 
Nay,  on  various  questions  on  which  men  who 
had  passed  over  to  Pyrrhonism  were  practically 
conservative,  he,  the  English  Christian,  was  prac- 
tically revolutionary.  In  the  language  not  only 
of  Johnson,  but  of  those  of  our  own  time  to  whom 
his  opinions  on  church  and  state  are  still  offen- 
sive, Milton  was  one  of  the  rebellious  or  anar- 
chical order  of  spirits.  In  the  matter  of  eccle- 
siastical polity,  for  example,  he  had  passed 
through  Church  of  England  Puritanism  and 
Presbyterianism  to  take  up  a  station  somewhere 
among,  if  not  already  beyond,  the  Independents 
and  other  extensive  sects  of  Nonconformists.  In 
some  of  his  writings  he  appears  as  a  pioneer  of 
the  Voluntary  Principle.  In  his  opinions  on 
marriage   he   was  heterodox   among  the  hetero- 


THE   LIFE   OF    MILTON.  xlvii 

dox.  He  had  notions  of  education  such  as 
would  hardly  be  propounded  now  by  the  most 
radical  of  university  reformers.  He  advocated 
toleration  of  all  Protestant  sects,  and  the  free- 
dom of  the  press,  at  a  time  when  these  ideas 
were  new,  in  language  from  which  even  those 
who  now  profess  them  as  a  matter  of  course  are 
accustomed  sometimes  to  abate  a  little.  In  state 
politics  he  was  an  ultra-republican,  with  some 
modifying  reservations.  It  is,  in  fact,  owing  to 
the  peculiar  ensemble  which  his  creed  presents  of 
so  many  extreme  views,  harmonized  in  his  case 
into  a  kind  of  unity,  but  otherwise  only  found 
detached  and  scattered  among  the  sects  of  his 
time,  that  it  is  reckoned  impossible  to  identify 
him  with  any  of  those  sects  in  particular,  or 
even,  as  some  think,  with  the  Puritans  as  a  par- 
ty. Both  Coleridge  and  Lord  Macaulay  have 
noticed  this  eclectic  character  of  Milton's  intellect 
as  shown  in  his  writings.  "  From  the  Parliament 
and  from  the  court,"  says  Lord  Macaulay ;  "  from 
the  conventicle  and  from  the  Gothic  cloister,  from 
the  gloomy  and  sepulchral  rites  of  the  Round- 
heads, and  from  the  Christmas  revel  of  the  hos- 
pitable cavalier,  his  nature  selected  and  drew  to 
itself  whatever  was  great  and  good,  while  it  re- 
jected all  the  base  and  pernicious  ingredients  by 
which  these  finer  elements  were  defiled."  In  the 
sense  in  which  it  is  intended  this  is  true.  As  a 
man  of  scholarship  and  academic  culture,  as  a 
lover  of  music  and  of  art  generally,  and  with  a 
fancy  accustomed  to  range  in  search  of  beauty 
through  the  whole  world  of  fact  and  of  litera- 
ture, it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  partisan- 
ship of  Milton,  even  when  most  resolute,  would 
be  of  a  barbarous  or  meagre  kind,  confounding 


xlviii  THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

principle  with  forms  and  minutige.  Like  Crom- 
well, who  was  also  exempt  from  the  prejudices  of 
his  party  against  art  and  liberal  culture,  he 
fought  in  the  struggle  as  a  general  fights,  and 
not  as  the  common  soldier.  Nevertheless,  it  is  to 
be  remembered  that  he  did  fight ;  and  as  the  true 
spirit  of  a  cause  is  better  and  more  profoundly- 
represented  in  its  leaders  than  in  its  inferior  ad- 
herents, so  it  would  be  but  pedantry  to  say,  that 
because  Milton  wore  his  hair  long,  or  because  he 
has  spoken  reverently  of  the  richly-stained  glass 
and  the  pealing  organ  of  a  Gothic  cathedral, 
therefore  he  was  not  a  Puritan.  Let  us  make 
whatever  we  can  of  the  fact,  he  did  belong,  with 
his  whole  heart  and  soul,  to  the  Enghsh  Puritan 
and  republican  movement  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. He  honored  what  it  honored ;  he  hated 
what  it  hated  ;  he  shared  its  detestation  and  in- 
tolerant dread  of  Popery.  If  he  was  not  a  Puri- 
tan, it  was  because  he  was  a  Puritan  and  some- 
thing more ;  that  "  something  more "  being  an 
expression  for  much  that  Milton's  mind,  rolling 
magnificently  within  itself,  had  thought  out  as 
properly  belonging  to  Puritanism,  and  as  neces- 
sary to  be  worked  into  it  in  order  to  give  it  its 
full  development.  In  this  sense,  because  Milton 
was  an  ideologist  in  the  van  of  the  extreme  sects, 
it  might  perhaps  be  argued  that  he  did  not  prop- 
erly belong  to  a  sect  at  all.  The  idealism  of 
Milton's  politics,  —  the  spirit  of  prophetic  enthu- 
siasm rather  than  practical  tact  with  which,  in 
his  political  speculations,  he  wraps  the  facts  of 
his  time,  and  even  human  nature  in  general, 
round  his  own  inwardly  evolved  theories  and 
his  schemes  of  what  might  be,  —  must  strike 
every  reader  of  his  prose  writings.     In  reading 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  xlix 

them  we  at  once  see  the  difference  between  a 
Milton  theorizing  nobly  for  Puritanism  in  his 
closet,  and  a  Cromwell  as  the  man  of  action, 
with  enthusiasms  as  fervid  and  an  ideal  as  high, 
grappling  in  the  same  interest  with  events  and 
contingencies.  Milton's  plans,  for  example,  sub- 
mitted to  Monk,  for  averting  the  Restoration,  are 
interesting  now  chiefly  as  very  simple-minded 
proofs  of  his  tenacity  as  a  theorist. 

It  is  not  only,  however,  as  illustrating  Milton's 
character,  or  the  higher  tendencies  of  that  histori- 
cal movement  with  which  he  was  associated,  that 
his  polemical  prose  writings  are  now  of  interest. 
They  have  an  interest  other  than  historical.     It 
is  because  the  bulk  of  polemical   writing   is   on 
points    of   ephemeral   importance,  and  is    there- 
fore of  ephemeral  application,  that  so  little  of  it 
endures  in  proportion  to  what  has  been  produced, 
and  that  ages  which  may  have  teemed  with  such 
literature  appear  often  as  mere  blanks  in  the  ret- 
rospect of  the  literary  historian.     The  pamphlets 
do   their*-  work ;    and    when   the  day  for    which 
they  were  calculated  is  over,  they  disappear  with 
its  buzzing  insects.     Their  very  efficiency  some- 
times might  be   measured    by  the  rapidity   with 
which    they  are    forgotten.      But    as    there    are 
certain   controversies  which   are    not  ephemeral, 
so  there  is  polemical  writing,  the  lease  of  which, 
to  borrow  Milton's  own  figure,  may  be  "  for  three 
lives  and  downwai-ds."     To  a  great  extent  Mil- 
ton's prose  writing  is  of  this  class.     Two  centu- 
ries have  elapsed  since  he  lived  and  wrote,  but 
(and  it  would  have  surprised  him  to  learn  that  it 
would  be  so)  the  war  in  which  he  fought  is  not 
yet  over.     In   Europe,  —  nay,  in  Great  Britain 
itself,  —  some  of  the  questions  which  he  discussed 

VOL.   I.  d 


1  THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

are  not  ytit  settled,  or,  after  having  apparently 
been  settled,  are  again  rising  ominously  into  sight. 
Hence,  as  Milton  did  not  concern  himself  with 
the  accidents  of  these  questions,  but  invariably 
plunged  into  their  essentials,  there  is  still,  with 
every  allowance  for  the  change  in  the  intellectual 
point  of  view,  between  his  time  and  this,  a  per- 
manent interest  in  most  of  his  argumentations. 
Apart,  however,  from  the  interest  which  these 
prose  writings  thus  retain  as  belonging  in  the 
main  to  one  side  of  a  yet  unfinished  controversy, 
they  have  an  interest  of  a  more  general  kind 
to  which  none  can  be  indifferent.  As  Burke's 
political  wi'itings  are  admired  for  their  elevation 
of  sentiment  and  the  richness  of  their  intellectual 
matter,  by  those  who  either  dissent  from  their 
practical  tenor  or  care  little  about  it,  so,  and  even 
in  a  more  superb  degree,  there  is  that  in  Milton's 
prose  treatises  which  will  keep  them  immortal. 
They  are  as  truly  Miltonic  as  his  poetry.  As 
Milton's  poetry  is  unique  in  one  section  of  our 
literature,  so  is  his  prose  in  the  other.  It  is  prose 
of  that  old  English,  or  as  some  might  say,  old 
Gothic  kind,  which  was  in  use  among  us  ere  yet 
men  had  given  their  days  and  nights  to  Addison, 
and  when  it  seemed  as  lawful  that  thought  in 
prose  should  come  in  the  form  of  a  brimming 
flood,  or  even  of  a  broken  cataract,  as  in  that 
of  a  trim  and  limpid  rivulet.  But  even  amid 
the  greatest  specimens  of  such  prose  of  the  pre- 
Addisonian  period  Milton's  prose  is  peculiar. 
That  of  Bacon  may  roll  with  it  a  richer  detritus 
of  speculative  hints  and  propositions ;  that  of  Jer- 
emy Taylor  may  have  a  mellower  beauty ;  but 
no  prose  in  the  language  is  grander  than  Milton's, 
or  more  indicative  of  moral  greatness.    Its  charac- 


THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON.  li 

teristic  in  its  best  passages  is  a  kind  of  sustained 
and  sometimes  cumbrous  and  operose  magnilo- 
quence. Milton  tells  us  himself  that  he  wrote 
slowly ;  and  one  can  see  that  as  he  wrote  he  was 
abashed  by  no  weight  of  thought  or  sublimity  of 
fancy  that  could  come  to  him,  but  would  pile 
thoughts  and  fancies  together,  till  no  prose  sen- 
tence could  carry  the  whole  burden  in  its  cadence, 
and  the  residue  had  to  be  conveyed  in  a  poetic 
chant.  Many  passages  in  his  treatises  might  be 
read  apart  as  prose  odes ;  and  even  where  he  is 
roughest  and  most  controversial,  and  where  his 
actual  reasonings  seem,  as  they  often  do,  poor  and 
inconclusive,  it  is  as  if,  in  order  to  bury  his  adver- 
sary anyhow,  he  were  tumbling,  in  sheer  rage,  a 
temple  into  ruins.  This  is  true  of  his  Latin  prose 
writings  (of  which  no  fit  translation  exists)  as 
well  as  of  his  English. 

Milton  survived  the  Restoration  fourteen  years 
(1660-1674),  and  these  fourteen  years  form  the 
third  period  of  his  literary  life.  To  him,  if  to 
any  man,  those  days  must  have  seemed  dark  and 
evil.  One  set  of  men  had  gone  out  of  office,  and 
been  thrust  down  into  the  obscurer  recesses  of  the 
body-politic,  there  to  cherish  their  principles  se- 
cretly, until  such  time  as  they  should  reappear  in 
the  guise  of  modern  Whiggism  and  modern  Dis- 
sent. The  public  direction  of  affairs  had  passed 
into  the  hands  of  men  of  principles  directly  op- 
posite. Of  the  state  of  manners  and  morals  in 
the  court  of  the  witty  and  licentious  Charles  II., 
and  of  the  contrast  which  it  presented  to  the  puri- 
tan government  which  it  had  superseded,  all  have 
some  idea.  The  superficial  change  throughout 
the  nation  at  large,  and  especially  in  and  about 
the  metropolis,  corresponded  with  this  change  in 


Hi  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

the  personnel  of  the  government.  Execration  of 
Puritanism,  and  a  reaction  in  favor  of  whatever 
Puritanism  liad  forbidden  or  denounced,  charac- 
terized the  popular  conduct  and  every  department 
of  the  public  procedure.  Above  all,  the  change 
was  visible  in  the  new  literature  which  began  at 
this  time  to  spring  up  in  consequence  of  the  social 
calm,  such  as  it  was,  that  had  followed  an  age  of 
conflict  and  turmoil,  and  especially  in  those  por- 
tions of  this  new  literature  which  depended  on 
the  pati'onage  of  the  court,  or  appealed  most  di- 
rectly to  popular  and  metropolitan  feeling.  The 
literature  of  the  Restoration,  as  all  know,  was 
marked  by  a  certain  combination  of  qualities 
distinguishing  it  as  a  whole  from  the  literature 
of  any  preceding,  and  from  that  of  most  subse- 
quent, eras  of  our  national  history.  It  was  in  the 
main  low  in  aim,  and  coarse  in  tone,  exhibiting  a 
robustness  in  the  organs  of  appetite,  accompanied 
by  some  keenness  in  those  of  perception,  rather 
than  a  predominance  of  the  imaginative  or  high- 
er intellectual  faculties,  such  as  had  borne  up  the 
Elizabethan  literature  into  universal  grace  and 
proportion.  Above  all,  it  was  pervaded  by  an 
anti-Puritan  spirit,  or  spirit  of  retrospective  dis- 
gust for  the  Puritan  rule,  which  showed  itself 
partly  in  direct  satires  and  denunciations  of  Pu- 
ritanism, whether  in  prose  or  verse ;  partly  in 
a  predominant  tendency  towards  the  comic  and 
jocose  in  all  forms.  The  reopening  of  the  thea- 
tres, and  the  consequent  revival  of  dramatic  writ- 
ing, gave  an  increased  stimulus  to  the  anti-Puritan 
spirit,  and  afforded  a  special  outlet  for  it.  Ini- 
tiated by  Davenant  and  other  survivors  of  the 
literary  school  of  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  among 
whom  were  Shirley  and  Cowley,  the  drama  of  the 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  liii 

Restoration  attained  its  height  in  Dryden,  wlio 
succeeded  Davenant  as  poet-laureate  in  1670 
precisely  because  of  his  dramatic  successes  dur- 
uig  the  ten  preceding  years,  and  who  thus  became 
officially,  as  he  was  by  right  of  genius,  the  chief 
star  of  the  new  literary  cluster.  Around  Dryden, 
and  belonging  to  the  same  literary  cluster,  might 
be  seen,  earlier  or  later,  between  the  years  1660 
and  1674,  such  men  as  Butler,  the  author  of 
Hmlihras,  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  the  Earls  of 
Dorset  and  Roscommon,  Sir  Charles  Sedley,  Sir 
George  Etherege,  William  Wycherley,  and  Thom- 
as Shadwell.  These,  and  such  as  these,  were 
the  so-called  "  wits  of  the  Restoration  ; "  while  the 
honors  of  philosojjhic  or  other  graver  prose  liter- 
ature were  supported  by  the  veterans  Hobbes  and 
Izaak  Walton,  or  by  Clarendon,  Browne,  Barrow, 
and  South.  It  is  worth  noting  also,  that  these 
first  fourteen  years  of  the  reign  of  the  second 
Charles,  remembered  as  they  chiefly  are  as  a 
period  of  spiritual  degeneracy  in  our  literature, 
were  the  era  of  the  rise  among  us  of  mathemat- 
ical and  physical  science.  The  Royal  Society 
dates  its  existence  almost  exactly  from  the  Res- 
toration ;  and  Boyle,  Barrow,  Wallis,  Wilkins, 
Wren,  and  Hooke,  were  already  busy  with  their 
researches,  and  waiting  for  the  appearance  among 
them  of  young  Mr.  Newton. 

It  was  rather  on  the  border  of  this,  the  well- 
known  world  of  Pepys  and  Aubrey,  than  as  ac- 
tually in  it  and  belonging  to  it,  that  Milton  spent 
his  declining  years.  He  still,  indeed,  made  Lon- 
don his  home;  living  from  1660  to  1662  in  a 
house  in  Holborn,  near  Red  Lion  Square ;  then 
from  1662  to  1665,  or  thereabouts,  in  a  house  in 
Jewin  Street,  near  his  old  quarters  in  Aldersgate 


liv  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

Street ;  then  for  a  short  time  in  lodgings  with 
Millington,  a  famous  book-auctioneer  of  the  day ; 
and  finally,  from  1665  onwards,  in  a  small  house 
in  Artillery  Walk,  leading  into  Bunhill  Fields. 
Of  course  there  may  have  been  occasional  visits 
to  the  country ;  and  one  such  visit  was  in  the 
year  1665-6,  when,  on  account  of  the  great 
plague  in  London,  he  took  a  cottage  for  some 
months  in  the  village  of  St.  Giles  Chalfont, 
Buckinghamshire.  Two  years  prior  to  this  — 
in  1662-3,  when  he  was  living  in  Jewin  Street 
—  he  contracted  his  third  marriage.  He  was 
then  fifty -four  years  of  age ;  his  wife,  who  was 
about  twenty-eight  years  younger,  was  Elizabeth 
MinshuU,  daughter  of  Mr.  Ralph  Minshull,  of  a 
good  family  in  Cheshire.  The  marriage,  which 
was  arranged  for  him  by  his  friend  Dr.  Paget, 
was  one  of  convenience  —  occasioned,  it  would 
appear,  chiefly  by  the  fact  that  his  daughters, 
who  had  grown  up  without  any  maternal  care, 
had  become  a  trouble  rather  than  an  assistance 
to  him  in  his  housekeeping.  At  the  date  of  the 
marriage  the  eldest  of  the  daughters  (who  was 
lame  and  otherwise  deformed)  was  nearly  seven- 
teen years  of  age,  the  second  nearly  fifteen,  and 
the  youngest  not  eleven ;  and  they  appear  all  to 
have  remained  with  him  for  some  years  after- 
wards, in  a  state  of  chronic  contention  with  their 
stepmother.  Her  temper,  it  is  stated,  was  none 
of  the  best ;  but  we  have  it  on  her  husband's 
own  authority,  that  "  she  was  very  kind  and  care- 
ful of  him ; "  and  we  have  the  same  authority  for 
the  sad  fact  that  his  children  were  "  unkind  and 
undutiful."  It  is  on  evidence  that  his  brother 
Christopher  had  heard  him  complain  that  "  they 
were   careless   of    him,   being   blind,  and   made 


THE   LIFE    OP  MILTON.  Iv 

nothing  of  deserting  him ; "  and  also  that  he 
complained  that  "  they  did  combine  together  with 
the  maid  to  cheat  him  in  her  marketings,"  and 
that  "  they  made  away  with  some  of  his  books, 
and  would  have  sold  the  rest  to  the  dunghill 
woman."  This,  so  far  as  it  relates  to  their  conduct 
before  his  third  marriage,  must  apply  chiefly  to 
the  two  eldest  daughters,  Anne  and  Mary.  The 
youngest,  Deborah,  probably  as  being  the  young- 
est, and  as  having  therefore  come  more  within 
the  control  of  the  third  wife,  has  left  a  more 
amiable  memory  of  herself.  She  is  said  to  have 
been  her  father's  favorite  reader  and  amanuensis 
so  long  as  she  remained  with  him  ;  she,  as  well  as 
her  sister  Mary,  having  been  trained  by  him  to 
what  they  thought  the  irksome  work  of  writing 
to  his  dictation,  and  reading  to  him  in  several 
languages  without  understanding  their  meaning. 
But  she  too  ultimately  quarrelled  with  her  step- 
mother;  and  about  the  year  1669  all  the  three 
sisters,  according  to  Philips,  were  "sent  out  to 
learn  some  curious  or  ingenious  sorts  of  manufac- 
ture that  are  proper  for  women  to  learn,  particu- 
larly embroidery  in  gold  and  silver."  According- 
ly, during  the  last  four  or  five  years  of  his  life, 
we  are  to  imagine  Milton's  household  in  Artillery 
"Walk  as  consisting  but  of  himself,  his  wife,  and 
one  or  two  servants ;  his  three  daughters  no 
longer  living  under  the  same  roof.  Whether 
they  lived  with  him  or  not,  however,  his  cir- 
cumstances were  such  as  to  enable  them  to  de- 
pend on  him  as  long  as  might  be  necessary. 
He  had  now,  indeed,  no  official  or  stated  income 
as  formerly ;  any  casual  receipts  from  his  writ- 
ings can  hardly  have  amounted  to  much  ;  his  first 
wife's  marriage  portion  of  £1000  had  never  been 


Ivi  THE    LIFE    OP   MILTON. 

paid ;  and  there  is  proof  that  the  property  left 
him  by  his  father  had  been  impaired  by  consider- 
able losses  or  forfeitures  at  the  Restoration.  Still, 
enough  remained  for  his  moderate  wants  as  long 
as  he  lived,  and  at  his  death  there  was  a  residue 
over. 

Shut  out  from  the  busy  world  in  some  measure 
by  the  unpopular  political  recollections  which  at- 
tached to  his  name,  and  shut  in  from  it  still  more 
by  his  blindness  and  by  his  undisguised  scorn  of 
nearly  all  that,  had  the  privilege  of  sight  remain- 
ed to  him,  there  would  have  been  for  him  there 
to  see,  Milton  found  his  solace  in  his  own 
thoughts,  in  the  conversation  of  a  few  friends 
who  would  drop  in  to  enjoy  his  society  and 
were  proud  to  lead  him  out  in  his  daily  walks, 
and  also  in  his  books  and  in  continued  literary 
occupation.  He  did  not  yet  cease  from  prose 
writing,  but  finished  or  prepared  for  the  press 
various  works  which  he  had  begun  before  the 
Restoration,  and  from  time  to  time  undertook 
new  ones.  The  following  is  a  list  of  his  prose 
writings  published  during  this  period,  and  of  such 
works  as,  though  left  ready  for  the  press,  were 
not  published  till  after  his  death  :  — 

1.  Accedence  Commenc't  Grammar;  a  short  skeleton  of 
Latin  grammar,  possibly  prepared  many  years  before, 
though  not  published  till  16G1. 

2.  The  History  of  Britain,  that  part  especially  now  called 
England,  from  the  first  Traditional  Beginning,  continued  to 
the  Norman  Conquest ;  collected  cmt  of  the  antientesi  and  best 
(iutho7-s  thereof.  This  was  not  published  till  1670,  though 
much  of  it  was  written  before  the  Restoration. 

3.  Artis  LogiccB  Plenior  Institutio,  ad  Petri  Rami  Methodum 
concinnata.  This  is  a  Latin  compendium  of  logic  after  the 
method  of  Ramus,  in  two  books,  with  a  brief  Life  of  Ramus 
appended.  It  was  published  in  1672,  but  may  have  been  in 
manuscript  many  years  before. 

4.  Of  True  Religion,  Heresie,  Schism,  Toleration,  and  what 


THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON.  Ivii 

hest  means  may  be  used  against  the  growth  of  Popery.  This 
little  tract  was  published  in  1673,  and  was  doubtless  written 
at  that  time  as  a. contribution  to  a  controversy  a^ain  rising 
into  interest.  It  is  written  in  a  calm  spirit,  and  with  none  of 
the  vehemence  of  his  earlier  polemical  writings,  and  is  inter- 
esting as  showing  his  matured  views  on  the  subject  of  re- 
ligious toleration.  He  is  for  the  absolute  toleration,  both  as 
regards  doctrine  and  as  regards  worship,  of  all  Protestant 
sects,  —  the  Church  of  England,  Presbyterians,  Independents, 
Anabaptists,  Arians,  Socinians,  &c.;  but,  as  regards  worship, 
he  excludes  Roman  Catholics,  partly  on  the  civil  ground  that 
they  acknowledge  a  foreign  allegiance,  partly  on  the  theologi- 
cal ground  that  thej-  deny  the  paramount  authority  of  Scrip- 
ture, which  denial,  and  nothing  else,  he  holds  is  heresy.  He 
is  not  for  punishing  them  "  by  corporal  punishment  or  fines 
on  their  estates,"  because  he  supposes  this  "  .stands  not  with 
the  clemency  of  the  gospel  more  than  what  appertains  to  the 
security  of  the  state;  "  but  he  is  for  suppressing  their  worship 
and  removing  its  furniture. 

5.  Epistolarurn  Familiarium  Liber  Unus ;  quibus  accesse- 
runt  Prolusiones  qiuedam  Oratoria.  These  are  the  "  Familiat 
Epistles"  and  the  "  Oratorical  Exercises  at  College,"  already 
alluded  to.  They  were  printed  in  1674,  the  last  year  of  Mil- 
ton's life,  apparently  not  on  Milton's  own  motion,  but  as  a 
speculation  of  the  publisher. 

6.  A  Brief  History  of  Moscovia  and  of  other  less  known 
Countries  lying  eastwnrcl  of  Russia  as  far  as  Cathay ;  gathered 
from  the  writings  of  several  eye-witnesses.  This  short  sketch 
was  left  in  manuscript,  and  was  published  eight  years  after 
Milton's  death. 

7.  Literm  Senatus  Anglicani ;  necnon  Cromwellii,  cfc,  nomine 
ac  Jtissu  conscriptce.  These  are  the  "  Letters  of  State " 
already  referred  to  as  written  by  Milton  in  his  official  capa- 
city under  the  Commonwealth.  The  bookseller  who  pub- 
lished his  "Familiar  Letters"  intended  to  publish  these  in 
the  same  volume,  but  was  warned  not  to  do  so,  and  they 
were  not  edited  till  after  Milton's  death. 

8.  Johannis  Milioni  Angli  de  Doctrina  Cliristiana  ex  Sacris 
duntaxat  Libris  petita,  Disquisiiionum  Lihri  Duo.  This  is  the 
famous  "  Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine,"  the  manuscript  of 
which  having  been  accidentally  discovered  by  Mr.  Lemon  in 
1823  in  the  State  Paper  Office,  was  edited  and  subsequently 
translated  by  the  Rev.  Charles  R.  Suirmer,  afterwards  Bishop 
of  Winchester.  The  history  of  the  work  is  as  follows :  —  In 
his  mature  life  Milton,  dissatisfied  with  such  systems  of  the- 
ology as  he  had  read,  and  deeming  it  to  be  eveiy  man's  right 
and  duty  to  draw  his  theology  for  himself  from  the  Scriptures 
alone,  had  begun  to  compile  a  system  for  his  own  use,  care- 
fully collecting  texts,  and  aiming  at  doing  little  more  than 
grouping  and  elucidating  them.     He  continued  this  work  till 


Iviii  THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

he  had  finished  it.  Considering  it  of  importance  enough  to 
be  published,  but  knowing  that  it  contained  some  matter 
which  might  be  thought  heterodox  in  England,  he  gave  the 
manuscript,  along  with  a  transcript  of  his  "  State  Letters," 
to  a  Mr.  Daniel  Skinner  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  (a 
relative  of  his  triend  Cyriack  Skinner,)  who  was  going  over 
to  Holland,  desiring  him  to  arrange  for  their  publication  with 
some  Dutch  printer.  Elzevir,  in  whose  hands  they  were 
placed,  having  declined  to  have  anything  to  do  with  them, 
they  were  given  back  to  Skinner,  who  still  remained  abroad. 
Meanwhile  the  existence  of  the  MSS.,  and  the  intention  to 
publish  them,  had  become  known  to  the  English  government; 
and  letters  were  sent  to  Skinner  from  Barrow,  the  master  of 
Trinity  College,  warning  him  of  the  risk  he  was  running,  and 
ordering  him  to  return  to  his  college  under  pain  of  expulsion. 
This  was  in  1676,  or  two  years  after  Milton's  death ;  and  Skin- 
ner seems  to  have  returned  soon  after,  and  to  have  delivered 
the  MSS.  to  Sir  Joseph  Williamson,  one  of  the  secretaries  of 
state.  By  him  they  were  stowed  away,  with  other  papers,  in 
the  place  where  Mr.  Lemon  found  them  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  afterwards,  still  in  the  original  wrapper. 

Besides  the  above,  there  are  some  other  things 
which  are  supposed,  on  evidence  more  or  less 
sHght,  to  have  come  from  Milton's  pen  in  his  later 
life;  and  it  is  known  that  in  1661  he  edited  a 
manuscript  of  Raleigh's  entitled  Aphorisms  of 
State.  (He  had  previously,  in  1658,  edited  an- 
other MS.  of  Raleigh's  entitled  Tlie  Cabinet 
Council.)  In  addition  to  all  this,  he  had  collected 
a  considerable  quantity  of  materials  towards  a 
dictionary  of  the  Latin  language,  the  papers  con- 
taining which  fell  into  the  hands  of  Edward  Phil- 
ips, who  is  supposed  to  have  used  them  in  com- 
piling the  Cambridge  Dictionary  of  1693.  How 
he  managed  in  his  blindness  to  go  through  so 
much  labor  of  mere  reading  and  accumulation, 
is  explained  partly  by  what  Philips  tells  us  of 
his  methods.  The  severe  use  which  he  made  of 
his  two  younger  daughters,  till  at  last  they  would 
bear  it  no  longer,  and  detested  the  very  sight  of 
him  and  his  books,  has  already  been  mentioned. 


THE   LIFE    OF    MILTON.  lix 

There  were  others,  however,  who,  both  while  his 
daughters  lived  with  him  and  after  they  went 
away,  were  but  too  glad  to  serve  the  scholarly 
and  exacting  old  Lear.  "  He  had  daily  about 
him,"  says  Philips,  "  one  or  other  to  read,  —  some, 
persons  of  man's  estate,  who  of  their  own  accord 
greedily  catched  at  the  opportunity  of  being  his 
readers,  that  they  might  as  well  reap  the  benefit 
of  what  they  read  to  him  as  oblige  him  by  the 
benefit  of  their  reading  ;  others,  of  younger  years, 
who  were  sent  by  their  parents  to  the  same  end." 
One  of  his  readers,  recommended  to  him  by  Dr. 
Paget,  was  a  young  Quaker  named  Ellwood. 

Milton's  later  prose  writings,  however,  dei'ive 
most  of  their  interest  from  the  fact  that  they  be- 
long to  the  same  period  as  his  later  poems.  It 
was  not  to  them,  nor  even  to  the  much  more 
splendid  polemical  writings  which  had  preceded 
them,  that  Milton  could  point  as  the  fulfilment 
of  his  early  pledge,  that  if  God  gave  him  strength, 
he  would  leave  behind  him  some  worthy  work  of 
Christian  genius  in  which  Britain  should  exult  as 
a  national  possession,  and  which  posterity  would 
not  willingly  let  die.  Often  as,  amid  the  turmoil 
of  his  middle  life,  this  pledge  had  recurred  to  him, 
how  he  must  have  sighed  over  the  work  that  was 
then  occupying  him,  and  felt  it  all  to  be  very  sick- 
ening, and  longed  for  a  sabbath  at  the  end  of  his 
life,  when  his  soul  might  sail  again  into  the  haven 
of  a  majestic  calm  !  After  all,  controversy  was  but 
the  work  of  his  "  left  hand,"  and  he  longed  for 
the  time  when  his  right  hand  should  again  have 
its  turn,  and  he  could  rejoice  in  the  renewed  sen- 
sations of  its  superior  strength  and  more  natural 
cunning.  His  sonnets  and  other  stray  pieces  of 
verse  written  during  the  civil  wars  and  the  Com- 


Ix  THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

monwealth,  and  perhaps  also  those  occasional  pas- 
sages of  lyric  grandeur  in  his  pi'ose  writings  where 
he  seems  to  be  spurning  prose  underfoot,  and  almost 
rising  for  the  moment  on  poetic  wings,  may  be 
regarded  as  so  many  brief  efforts  whereby  he  as- 
sured himself,  while  his  higher  and  finer  faculty 
was  in  abeyance,  that  he  had  not  lost  it.  It  was 
not  till  towards  the  end  of  Cromwell's  protector- 
ate, however,  and  when  already  he  had  for  several 
years  been  blind,  that  he  was  able  to  begin  an 
undertaking  commensurate  with  his  lifelong  aspi- 
ration. According  to  Aubrey,  it  was  then  (1658), 
when  it  appeared  as  if,  under  the  settled  rule  of 
Cromwell,  the  nation  was  entering  on  a  long  pe- 
riod of  peace  and  leisure,  that  the  Paradise  Lost 
was  begun.  Whether  it  was  then  begun  in  the 
actual  shape  in  which  we  now  have  it,  or  whether 
Milton  was  at  this  time  only  turning  over  the  sub- 
ject in  his  mind,  and  ruminating  it  in  that  form 
of  a  sacred  mystery  or  drama  in  which  we  find  it 
first  rudely  sketched  in  the  Cambridge  manuscripts, 
can  hardly  be  ascertained.  Cromwell  was  not  to 
live  long  enough  to  initiate  by  his  great  and  peace- 
ful rule  that  new  literature,  signs  of  the  rise  of 
which  were  not  wanting  towards  the  close  of  his 
protectorate.  When  the  new  literature  did  arise, 
it  was  in  the  guise  of  the  literature  of  the  Res- 
toration ;  and  whatever  progress  Milton  may  have 
made  in  his  great  poem  before  the  accession  of 
Charles  II.,  the  bulk  of  it  was  written  after  that 
monarch  was  on  the  throne. 

The  facts  respecting  Paradise  Lost,  and  the 
other  later  poems  of  Milton,  will  be  best  present- 
ed in  a  table  of  his  later  poetical  publications, 
supplementary  to  that  of  his  later  prose  writings 
already  given : — 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  Ixi 

1.  Paradise  Lost.  This  poem  was  certainly  complete  by 
the  27th  of  April  1667,  (Milton  cetat.  58,)  on  which  day 
it  was  sold  to  Samuel  Simmons,  bookseller,  for  £b  down, 
with  a  promise  of  £b  more  when  1300  copies  of  the  first 
edition  should  have  been  sold,  another  £o  more  when  1300 
copies  of  the  second  edition  should  have  been  sold,  and  so  on 
for  successive  editions,  —  each  edition  to  consist  of  1500  cop- 
ies. According  to  Ellwood,  however,  the  poem  must  have 
been  ready  more  than  a  year  before  that  time;  for  he  says 
that  on  visiting  Milton  while  he  was  at  Chalfont  in  Bucking- 
hamshire (1665-6),  he  gave  him  the  complete  manuscript  of 
the  poem  to  read.  As  originally  published,  the  poem  consist- 
ed of  ten  books,  and  was  sold  at  three  shillings  per  copy. 
The  stipulated  1300  copies  must  have  been  sold  before  the 
26th  of  April  1669,  on  which  day  Milton  signs  a  receipt  for 
the  second  £h.  This  was  a  very  good  sale  in  two  years ;  but 
the  remaining  copies  do  not  seem  to  have  gone  off'  so  fast,  as 
it  was  not  till  1674,  or  the  year  of  Milton's  death,  that  a  sec- 
ond edition  was  published.  In  this  second  edition  the  ten 
books  were  converted  into  twelve,  by  a  division  of  the  seventh 
and  tenth ;  and  there  were  some  other  alterations.  A  third 
edition  was  called  for  in  1678 ;  and  in  December  1680  Milton's 
widow  parted  with  all  her  interest  in  the  work  for  one  sum 
of  £9),  paid  to  her  bv  Simmons. 

2.  Paradise.  Re(jained.  When  Ellwood  returned  the  manu- 
script of  Paradise  Lost  to  Milton,  they  had  some  talk,  he 
says,  as  to  the  merits  of  the  poem,  in  the  course  of  which 
Ellwood  ventured  pleasantlj'  to  say  to  him,  "  Thou  hast  said 
much  here  of  paradise  lost,  but  what  hast  thou  to  say  of  para- 
dise found?  "  To  this,  he  saj-s,  Milton  made  no  answer,  but 
fell  into  a  muse,  and  broke  off  the  discourse.  When,  how- 
ever, some  time  alter  the  sickness  was  over,  Ellwood  revisited 
Milton  in  London,  he  showed  him  Paradise  Regained,  saj'- 
ing,  "  This  is  owing  to  you ;  for  you  put  it  into  my  head  by 
the  question  you  put  to  me  at  Chalfont,  which  before  I  had 
not  thought  of."  Assuming  this  to  be  literally  accurate,  we 
should  have  to  suppose  Paradise  Regained  finished  in  1667,  if 
not  earlier;  but  it  was  not  published  till  1671  (iMilton  atai. 
62),  on  which  occasion  it  was  issued,  not  by  Simmons,  but 
by  another  bookseller,  in  the  same  volume  with  Samson 
Agonisies. 

3.  Samson  Agonistes,  a  Dramatic  Poem,  published  as 
above,  1671. 

4.  A  second  edition  of  his  minor  poems  was  published  in 
1673,  the  year  before  his  death,  containing  the  pieces  which 
had  appeared  in  the  edition  of  1645,  with  some  additions. 

At  this  point  it  is  that  the  fact  of  the  interpo- 
sition of  a  middle  period  of  prose  polemics  be- 


Ixii  THE   LIFE    OF   MTLTON. 

tween  the  earlier  and  the  later  poetry  of  Milton 
becomes  of  importance  to  the  critic  of  his  works. 
Poetry,  as  such,  is  the  exercise  of  imagination  ; 
and  when  a  man  makes  poetry  his  work,  or,  after 
having  been  engaged  on  other  kinds  of  work, 
returns  to  poetry,  it  is  implied  that  the  whole 
strength  of  his  mind  passes  for  the  time  being 
into  the  imaginative  faculty.  But  here,  as 
usual,  it  becomes  apparent  that  our  distinctions 
of  faculties  are  partly  devices  for  our  own  con- 
venience in  conceiving  of  things.  Imagination 
is  not,  properly  speaking,  the  imagining  part  of 
the  mind,  but  rather  the  whole  mind  in  the  act 
of  imagining ;  and  hence,  though  some  minds 
tend  more  to  this  act  than  others,  yet  the  nature 
and  the  worth  of  the  imaginations  of  any  par- 
ticular mind  are  determined  by  the  total  charac- 
ter and  contents  of  that  mind.  On  this  principle, 
also,  we  see  how  it  is  that  in  one  and  the  same 
mind  there  may  be  poetic  development,  and  how 
a  poet's  later  muse  may  differ  from  his  earlier, 
just  as  a  philosopher's  later  may  differ  from  his 
earlier  doctrine.  Imagination  is  said  to  be  the 
faculty  of  youth ;  which,  however,  is  true,  to  some 
extent,  only  in  this  sense,  that  men  as  they  ad- 
vance in  life  have  so  many  things  to  do  that, 
even  if  they  set  out  with  a  strong  imaginative 
tendency,  they  indulge  it  less  and  less.  In  the 
cases  of  professed  poets,  however,  who  preserve 
and  cherish  their  imaginative  tendency,  and  go 
through  the  working  world  laurelled  and  privi- 
leged to  dream,  it  is  not  observed  that  the  im- 
agination grows  weaker  so  long  as  there  is  growth 
in  the  being  at  all,  but,  on  the  contrary,  that  it 
gains  strength.  By  the  mere  necessities  of  ex- 
istence, acquisition,  and  experience,  it  is  a  more 


THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON.  Ixiii 

rich  and  powerful  imagining  mind  in  the  later 
than  it  was  in  the  earlier  stages  of  the  progress. 
And  so  also  if,  after  an  intermediate  period  of 
non-poetical  activity,  or  of  activity  in  the  main 
non-poetical,  a  mind  originally  poetical  reverts, 
before  decay  has  set  in,  and  ere  the  old  habit  has 
been  forgotten  by  too  much  disuse,  to  its  first  oc- 
cupations. In  either  case  there  will  be  differences 
between  the  earlier  and  the  later  poetry.  The 
themes  in  all  probability  will  be  different,  and  the 
style  and  manner  of  treatment  will  be  different 
likewise.  So  it  was  with  Milton.  In  his  youth 
his  was  the  imagination  of  a  mind  naturally  firm 
and  austere,  it  is  true,  and  already  cultured  and 
well  equipped  with  learning,  but  still  sufficiently 
untorn  and  unexercised  in  the  contemporary  med- 
ley of  human  things  to  find  its  delight  in  fancies 
of  the  sweet  and  sensuous  order,  in  themes  of 
idyllic  grace,  or  of  purely  ideal  beauty.  In  his 
old  age,  or  second  poetic  period,  it  was  different. 
Imagination  was  again  his  darling  faculty  ;  but  it 
was  now  the  imagination  of  the  same  mind  tried 
and  disciplined  in  a  thousand  things  by  what  it 
had  meanwhile  passed  through,  —  heavily  freight- 
ed, as  it  were,  with  twenty  years  of  griefs,  ideas, 
recollections,  and  experiences,  which  had  not  at 
first  belonged  to  it.  If,  then,  imagination  is  the 
whole  mind  in  the  act  of  imagining,  and  if,  ac- 
cordingly, the  poems  which  a  poet  successively 
puts  forth  may  be  regarded  as  in  a  profound 
sense  allegories,  on  a  larger  or  smaller  scale,  of 
his  entire  being  at  the  moments  to  which  they 
appertain,  it  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that 
Milton's  later  poetry,  though  bearing  certain  re- 
semblances to  his  earlier,  should  yet  differ  from 
it.     By  universal  admission  such  is  the  fact.     In 


Ixiv  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

Paradise  Lost,  Paradise  Regained,  and  Samson 
Agonistes,  we  have  the  same  peculiar  Miltonic 
genius  which  we  discern  in  Penseroso,  Gomus,  or 
Lycidas ;  but  it  is  as  if  that  genius  had  mean- 
while absorbed  and  incorporated  into  its  fibre  all 
that  we  know  of  the  intermediate  polemic  and 
prose  writer.  The  themes  are  of  larger  dimen- 
sions and  of  more  direct  human  and  historic  in- 
terest ;  the  filling  up  is  more  various,  erudite,  and 
elaborate  ;  the  artistic  harmony  is  more  complex  ; 
and  while  the  whole  matter  is  cast  in  the  mould  of 
the  imagination,  much  of  it  is  of  independent  and 
extra-poetical,  not  to  say  controversial,  value. 

Each  of  the  three  later  poems  of  Milton  has 
its  separate  merits  as  a  poem,  and  also  its  sep- 
arate interest  in  connection  with  the  poet's  biog- 
raphy- In  the  noble  ^schylean  drama  of  the 
blind  Samson  among  the  Philistines,  one  seems 
to  see  a  scarcely  disguised  allegory  of  the  poet 
himself,  agonizing  in  the  midst  of  evil  times. 
There  is  no  need  to  ask  how  that  subject  occurred 
to  him.  As  regards  the  Paradise  Regained, 
though  here  also  we  can  discover  points  of  con- 
tact between  the  subject  and  the  author,  such  as 
might  have  determined  him  independently  tow- 
ards the  choice  of  that  epic  from  the  first,  we 
yet  know  that  it  was  composed  mainly  as  a  se- 
quel to  the  Paradise  Lost.  It  remains,  then,  to 
account  for  the  origin  of  this  greater  epic,  the 
crowning  glory  of  Milton's  life,  and  to  which  it 
is  owing  that  he  is  remembered,  and  will  be  re- 
membered forever,  not  only  as  a  noble  English- 
man who  did  his  duty  manfully  in  a  troublous 
period  of  his  nation's  history,  nor  even  only  as 
this,  with  the  addition  of  having  been  a  notable 
English  poet,  but  as  one  of  those  select  few  of 


THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON.  Ixv 

the  children  of  men  who,  having  wedded  their 
genius  to  universal  themes,  stand  apart  as  the 
great  poets  of  the  world,  and  the  authors  of  the 
world's  masterpieces.  Notwithstanding  the  tradi- 
tion, through  Philips  and  Ellwood,  of  Milton's 
preference  for  the  Paradise  Regained,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  it  was  to  the  Paradise  Lost  that 
he  himself  looked  as  the  fulfilment  of  his  life- 
long promise. 

The  most  important  act  of  the  artist,  and  that 
which  involves  the  greatest  amount  of  presumptive 
evidence  respecting  him,  is  his  choice  of  a  sub- 
ject. Milton,  we  have  seen,  had  wavered  long 
before  deciding  as  to  the  best  theme  for  his  in- 
tended masterpiece.  Like  "Wordsworth  before  he 
determined  on  his  long  philosophical  poem,  he 
appears  to  have  ranged  through  history  in  seai"ch 
of  a  subject  of  sufficient  interest  and  capability ; 
going  back  through  British  history,  and  there 
resting  fondly  for  a  time  on  the  subject  of  King 
Arthur,  then  deviating  into  general  medireval  his- 
tory, and  finally  extending  his  quest  still  backward 
and  backward  through  ancient  to  primeval  times. 
At  last  in  his  search  he  reaches  a  point  beyond 
which  it  was  impossible  to  go  —  the  point  where 
human  history  itself  began,  and  where  our  planet, 
with  life  but  newly  planted  upon  it,  is  seen  emerg- 
ing for  its  special  voyage  out  of  the  obscurities 
of  prior  and  universal  existence.  The  more  he 
thinks  of  this  subject,  already  familiar  to  him  in 
its  biblical  relations,  the  more  sensible  he  becomes, 
not  only  of  its  intrinsic  capabilities,  but  also  of  its 
fitness  for  himself.  The  qualities  and  endowments 
for  which  it  affords  scope,  —  an  imagination  de- 
hghting  in  conceptions  of  the  physically  vast,  as 
in  asti-onomy,  and  yet  capable  of  that  kind  of 
VOL.  I.  e 


Ixvi  THE   LIFE    OF  MILTON. 

sensuousness  which  consists  in  love  of  the  phys- 
ically rich,  as  in  landscape  and  vegetation ;  great 
acquired  learning,  classical  and  theological ;  a  mor- 
al sublimity  of  nature  almost  at  war  with  human 
society  as  seen  around  it,  and  driven,  therefore,  to 
communion  with  objects  and  intelligences  unseen  ; 
an  intellect  withal  massive  and  severely  logical  to 
exclude  in  the  process  of  imagination  whatever 
should  be  beneath  the  philosophy  of  the  time,  and 
to  shape  all  into  clear  form  and  sequence  accord- 
ing to  high  literary  rule :  these  are  the  very  qual- 
ities and  endowments  which  he  is  conscious  of 
possessing.  On  the  other  hand,  those  qualities 
of  the  want  of  which  he  was  or  might  have  been 
conscious,  —  humor,  for  example,  as  in  Chaucer 
and  Shakspeare,  and  the  corresponding  dramatic 
faculty  of  light  incident  and  varied  painting  of 
physiognomies  and  characters,  to  pass  and  repass 
in  quick  succession  in  a  story,  —  were  qualities 
the  exercise  of  which  the  theme  itself  precluded. 
What  room  for  humor  in  the  grand  story  of  our 
earth's  beginning,  or  for  elaborate  portrait-paint- 
ing in  the  description  of  a  world  tenanted  as  yet 
but  by  the  two  first  beings  of  our  race  ?  In  short, 
by  the  instinct  both  of  what  he  could  and  of  what 
he  could  not  do,  Milton's  choice  was  made ;  and, 
it  having  been  also  at  last  decided  that  the  form 
of  the  poem  should  be  the  epic  and  not  the  dra- 
matic, and,  moreover,  (which  was  then  a  great  in- 
novation, and  was  proclaimed  by  Milton  to  be 
such,)  that  the  verse  employed  should  be  the  he- 
roic blank  and  not  rhyme.  Paradise  Lost  slowly 
grew  into  being.  For  seven  years  or  thereby, 
and  mostly  amid  the  streets  of  bustling  London, 
where  Charles  was  amusing  himself  with  his  court, 
and  Dryden  was  seeing  his  plays  acted,  and  poor 


THE   LIFE    OP  MILTON.  Ixvii 

Butler  was  growing  morose  from  ill  usage,  and 
Pepys  was  running  about  and  taking  notes,  the 
plan  was  carried  in  the  blind  man's  head,  till  at 
last,  by  dictations  of  twenty  or  fifty  lines  at  a 
time,  the  work  was  completed. 

"  Things  imattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme," 

is  Milton's  description  of  the  matter  of  his  poem. 
The  description  is  just ;  and  it  is  part  of  his  title 
to  immortality  that  he  spent  his  genius  on  a  theme 
of  universal  interest,  which,  seeing  that  it  had  been 
reserved  for  him  to  sing  it,  could  certainly  now, 
for  that  very  reason,  never  be  sung  a  second  time, 
even  had  he  sung  it  worse. 

"  Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe," 

is  his  opening  more  particular  definition  of  the 
purport  of  his  song.  This  definition,  however,  if 
taken  by  itself,  is  totally  inadequate  ;  nor,  if  this 
were  the  theme,  could  it  be  said  to  have  been  un- 
attempted  before.  The  true  theme  of  Paradise 
Lost  is  the  story  of  the  connection  of  this  world, 
as  a  whole,  with  what  may  be  called  the  larger 
universe  of  ante-human  existence ;  and  "  man's 
first  disobedience "  is  but  the  last  incident  in 
the  story,  to  which,  as  to  a  narrow  point,  all  the 
prior  incidents  tend.  The  true  hero  of  the  poem 
—  the  being  in  whose  movements  and  actions  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  the  unity  of  the  epic  is 
maintained  —  is  the  archangel  Satan.  Adopting 
the  scriptural  account  of  this  great  being,  as  one 
in  whose  life  the  past  and  primeval  system  of 
things  is  fatally  connected  with  ours,  and  adher- 
ing also  with  theological  conscientiousness  to  what- 
ever circumstantials  Scripture  has  supplied  towards 


Ixviii  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

filling  out  the  story,  the  poet  has  passed  the  whole 
through  the  mould  of  his  imagination  in  such  a 
manner,  that  now  it  is  Milton's  story  of  the  origin 
and  first  events  of  the  universe,  rather  than  the 
biblical  outline  which  suggested  it  to  him,  that  has 
taken  possession  of  the  British  mind.  As,  how- 
ever, there  is  no  contradiction  of  the  biblical  nar- 
rative, but  only  an  expansion  of  it,  the  majority 
of  readers  find  in  the  poem  an  absolutely  unex- 
ceptionable rendering  of  the  theme  ;  while  on  the 
other  hand,  even  those  who  hold  aloof  from  the- 
ology in  such  matters,  or  would  treat  the  Mosaic 
account  rather  as  a  figure  than  as  a  narrative, 
admit  that,  as  there  must  be  some  conception  of 
the  theme  for  the  mind  of  man  to  take  hold  of,  so 
no  more  sublime  conception  of  it  than  Milton's 
has  been  provided  by  a  human  poet,  or  could  be 
presented  to  the  Christian  world.  To  both  classes 
of  readers  the  poem  properly  shapes  itself  as  in 
the  main  a  Sataniad,  or  epic  of  Satan's  life,  from 
the  time  of  his  being  an  archangel  among  the 
hosts  of  heaven,  to  the  time  of  the  execution  of 
that  scheme  whereby,  after  the  fall  of  himself  and 
his  fellow-rebels,  he  becomes  the  lord  and  minister 
of  evil  on  our  particular  earth. 

From  the  very  nature  of  the  theme  it  arises 
that  the  extent  of  jihysical  space  which  the  poem 
fills  is  larger  than  that  which  any  other  known 
poem  takes  in,  or  any  other  conceivable  poem 
could  possibly  require.  The  universe  of  Dante's 
poem,  physically  regarded,  is  but  a  nut-shell  to 
that  of  Milton's,  which  stretches  in  its  totality 
beyond  all  telescopic  bounds,  and  encloses,  as  but 
a  drop  of  central  azure,  the  whole  visible  region 
of  the  stars  and  galaxies.  A  diagram  of  the 
plan  of  the  poem  would  illustrate  this.     It  pre- 


THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON.  Ixix 

sents  to  US  the  first  primeval  Infinity,  not  as  a 
universe  of  stars  at  all,  but  as  a  sphere,  if  we 
may  so  say,  of  infinite  I'adius,  divided  into  two 
and  only  two  parts, —  the  higher  or  upper  hemis- 
phere of  Heaven,  which  is  a  region  all  of  light, 
formed  forth  in  some  inconceivable  way  into 
tracts  of  field  and  continent,  and  populated  in 
some  inconceivable  way  by  angelic  beings,  all 
near  to  Deity,  and  doing  his  missions,  but  dis- 
tributed into  hosts  and  hierarchies,  and  leading 
lives  of  freedom;  and  the  lower  or  nether  hem- 
isphere of  Chaos,  where  no  such  beings  habit- 
ually are,  but  which  is  a  great  sea  or  swelter  of 
darkness  and  confusion  —  a  limitless,  fathomless 
quagmire  of  elemental  pulp.  While  we  are 
contemplating  this  eternal  Infinity,  divided  equa- 
torially,  as  it  were,  into  a  Heaven  above  and  a 
Chaos  below,  —  lo !  the  event  which  breaks  in 
on  the  grand  monotony  of  ante-human  history, 
and,  by  means  of  moral,  necessitates  physical 
changes  !  Satan  and  his  fellow-angels  rebel ; 
there  are  the  wars  in  Heaven  ;  and  when  these 
are  over,  the  rebels,  driven  headlong  into  the 
yawning  gap  which  opens  to  disgorge  them  into 
Chaos,  are  pursued  by  the  Messiah's  wrath,  down 
and  still  down  through  its  dark  abysses,  till  they 
reach  that  space  or  pit  of  fire  which  is  now  pre- 
pared for  their  reception  in  nethermost  Chaos, 
under  the  name  of  Hell.  This  third  region,  so 
created  for  the  first  time,  is,  as  it  were,  the  an- 
tarctic zone  of  the  universal  sphere,  separated 
from  the  hemisphere  of  Heaven  by  the  vast  in- 
tervening belt  of  Chaos  as  it  still  remains.  Stun- 
ned and  confounded  by  their  fall,  the  x'ebel  spirits 
lie  long  inactive  in  the  fiery  lake,  till  at  last, 
roused  by  Satan  from  their  stupor,  they  reahze 


IXX  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

the  past  and  look  forward  to  the  future.  Amid  a 
Babel  of  counsel  it  is  Satan  that  devises  a  plan. 
The  creation  of  Hell  in  the  nethermost  region  of 
Chaos  has  not  been  the  only  physical  change  in- 
troduced about  this  time  into  the  universal  order. 
Contemporaneously  with  the  fall  of  the  rebel 
angels  God  has  executed  through  his  Son  the 
scheme  foreordained  from  everlasting,  of  the 
creation  at  this  time  of  a  new  race  of  beings 
differing  from  the  angels,  and  of  a  world  fitted 
to  receive  them.  By  the  exercise  of  the  creative 
energy  a  great  mine  or  hollow  has  been  cut  or 
scooped  out  of  upper  Chaos  at  its  junction  with 
Heaven ;  into  this  hollow  the  light  has  gushed 
down  from  above,  so  that  it  is  now  no  longer  a 
part  of  Chaos ;  and  under  the  influence  of  the 
principles  of  rotation  and  gravitation  planted  in 
it  of  express  purpose,  the  matter  that  existed  in 
it  chaotically  has  become  coagulated  into  balls 
and  planets,  moving  in  regular  orbits,  and  sep- 
arated by  clear  interspaces.  This,  in  short,  is 
our  human  or  telescopic  universe,  with  its  suns, 
its  stars,  its  moons,  its  nebulae  ;  all  in  apparent 
diurnal  rotation  round  that  little  earth  of  ours, 
which  was  to  be  the  centre  of  the  whole  experi- 
ment. Thereon  already  walked  Adam  and  Eve, 
in  a  paradise  of  trees  and  flowers,  the  fairest  and 
happiest  of  God's  creatures.  It  was  of  this  new 
creation,  known  to  him  not  as  yet  by  eyesight,  but 
only  conceived  vaguely  from  recollection  of  the 
tradition  of  it  as  discussed  so  long  in  Heaven, 
that  Satan  bethought  himself  in  his  fallen  estate 
in  Hell.  His  plan  is  to  abstain  from  all  mere 
general  endeavor  against  the  Almighty,  and  to 
gain  admission,  if  possible,  into  this  new  creation 
so  as  to  vitiate  and  ruin  it.     His  scheme  having 


THE    LIFE    OP    MILTON.  Ixxi 

been  approved  by  bis  co-mates,  be  bimself  sets 
forth  to  execute  it.  Leaving  the  rest  of  the 
fallen  host  to  organize  their  new  kingdom  and 
build  the  palace  of  Pandemonium,  be  climbs  bis 
arduous  way  through  superincumbent  Chaos  till 
the  light  of  the  young  creation  appears  above 
him,  and  he  emerges  within  its  transparent  bos- 
ses. At  first  amazed  and  almost  softened  by  the 
sight,  he  at  length  arouses  bimself  to  his  task,  and 
having  ascertained  which  of  all  the  shining  orbs 
was  the  seat  of  man,  he  alights  on  its  surface, 
and,  despite  the  vigilance  of  angels  celestially 
commissioned  to  oppose  him,  completes,  in  the 
shape  of  a  serpent,  bis  fiendish  errand.  When 
he  returns  to  Hell  in  triumph,  bis  fellows  have 
already  bridged  the  interval  between  Hell  and 
Creation  so  as  to  make  the  intercommunication 
easy  ;  the  two  regions  are  thenceforth  associated ; 
and  though  the  price  to  the  rebel  angels  them- 
selves of  this  voluntary  concentration  of  their 
energies  on  one  poor  world  is  a  farther  degen- 
eracy of  their  form  and  nature.  Humanity  is  their 
prey  for  the  appointed  season. 

There  is  no  need  here  to  dilate  on  the  consist- 
ency with  which  Milton  has  conducted  this  mag- 
nificent story,  or  on  the  power  of  various  inven- 
tion with  which  be  has  filled  it  up  ;  nor  need  we 
refer  to  such  adverse  criticisms  as  have  been 
from  time  to  time  ventured  against  portions  of 
the  poem.  We  refrain  also  from  an  inquiry, 
which  might  more  properly  belong  to  us,  as  to 
the  influence  of  Milton's  blindness,  not  only  in 
determining  him  to  such  a  subject,  but  also  as 
perhaps  positively  qualifying  him  for  that  kind 
of  imagination  and  description  of  which  five 
sixths  of    the   poem   consist,  —  the    imagination 


Ixxii  THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON. 

and  description  of  vast  physical  space,  variously 
shaded  and  divided ;  of  luminous  orbs  in  quiet 
motion  through  the  nocturnal  deep  ;  of  luminous 
or  else  shadowy  beings  passing  or  repassing, 
singly  or  in  battalions ;  of  contrasts  of  light  and 
darkness  in  all  their  forms.  In  the  remaining 
parts  of  the  poem,  where  the  poet  condescends 
on  our  own  earth,  and  describes  the  beauty  of 
Paradise,  there  is  certainly  no  lack  of  sensuous- 
ness,  in  the  more  ordinary  sense  of  the  term  ; 
but  it  may  be  questioned  whether,  with  all  the 
richness  of  those  paradisaic  descriptions,  there 
is  not  evidence  that  the  poet  was  now  but  living 
fondly  on  his  recollections  of  a  world  of  color 
and  vegetation  from  which  he  had  been  long 
shut  out.  At  all  events,  much  even  of  the  sub- 
sidiary and  terrestrial  imagery  of  the  poem  will 
be  found  to  consist  of  light  and  darkness  worked 
cunningly  into  visual  contrast ;  and  the  florid 
offering  on  the  bier  of  Lycidas  is  richer  in  botan- 
ical color  and  embroidery  than  the  nuptial  bower 
of  Eve. 

A  question  as  to  Milton's  theological  belief, 
which  was  suggested  to  some  keen  critics  by  cer- 
tain passages  of  his  Paradise  Lost,  has  been  an- 
swered, in  favor  of  their  conjecture,  by  the  discov- 
ery of  his  Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine.  In 
one  chapter  of  that  work  he  expresses  views  at 
variance  with  the  orthodox  notions  of  the  Trinity. 
Bishop  Sumner  gives  a  summary  of  these  views 
in  theological  language.  Milton  asserts,  he  says, 
"  that  the  Son  of  God  existed  in  the  beginning, 
and  was  the  first  of  the  whole  creation ; "  that 
"  by  his  delegated  power  all  things  were  made 
in  heaven  and  in  earth ; "  that  "  he  was  begotten 
within  the  limits  of  time,"  and  "  indued  with  the 


THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON.  Ixxiii 

Divine  nature  and  substance,  but  distinct  from 
and  inferior  to  the  Father."  In  other  words, 
Milton  in  his  later  life  was  an  Arian,  and  there 
is  a  trace  of  at  least  incipient  Arianism  in  the 
Paradise  Lost. 

Milton  lived  seven  years  and  a  half  after  the 
publication  of  his  Paradise  Lost,  and  three  years 
after  the  publication  of  his  subsequent  volume 
containing  the  Paradise  Regained  and  Samson 
Agonistes.  The  personal  sketches  which  we  have 
of  him  refer  mostly  to  this  time  of  his  life. 

Of  a  stature  somewhat  below  the  average,  Mil- 
ton had  in  his  youth  been  singularly  handsome, 
with  a  complexion  of  delicate  white  and  red,  dark 
gray  eyes,  light  auburn  hair,  parted  in  the  middle, 
and  altogether  an  appearance  of  slender  and  even 
feminine  grace,  which  it  required  his  manly  bear- 
ing and  his  confidence  as  a  swordsman  to  contra- 
dict. Even  in  later  life  he  was  usually  mistaken 
for  ten  years  younger  than  he  really  was.  In  his 
old  age,  however,  his  blindness,  accompanied  by 
the  gout  and  other  infirmities,  had  abated  his  ac- 
tivity and  vigor.  "  An  aged  clergyman  of  Dor- 
setshire," says  the  painter  Richardson,  "  found 
John  Milton  in  a  small  chamber  hung  with  rusty 
green,  sitting  in  an  elbow-chair,  and  dressed  neat- 
ly in  black  ;  pale,  but  not  cadaverous  ;  his  hands 
and  fingers  gouty,  and  with  chalk-stones.  He 
used  also  to  sit  in  a  gray  coarse  cloth  coat  at  the 
door  of  his  house  near  Bunhill  Fields,  in  warm 
sunny  weather,  to  enjoy  the  fresh  air ;  and  so,  as 
well  as  in  his  room,  received  the  visits  of  people 
of  distinguished  parts  as  well  as  quality."  To 
this  we  may  add  some  particulars  from  other 
sources.    "  He  was  an  early  riser,"  says  Aubrey ; 


Ixxiv  THE   LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

"  to  wit,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  yea,  after 
he  lost  his  sight."     In  winter  his  hour  of  rising 
was  five  ;  and  sometimes  he  would  lie  in  bed  after 
he  was  awake  composing  mentally  or  dictating. 
He  had  a  man  to  read  to  him  as  soon  as  he  got 
up,' and  also  after  breakfast,  and  he  always  began 
the  day  with  a  chapter  or  two  of  the  Hebrew 
Bible.     The  early  part  of  the  day  was  spent  by 
him  in  reading  and  writing ;  "  the  writing,"  says 
Aubrey,  "  usually  as  much  as  the  reading."     He 
used  to  dictate,  sitting  obliquely  in  an  elbow-chair, 
with  his  leg  thrown  over  the  arm.    At  one  o'clock, 
after  a  short  walk,  he  dined,  eating  well  of  such 
dishes  as  he  liked,  but  drinking  little  except  water. 
"  God  have  mercy,  Betty,"  he  said  to  his  wife  one 
day  at  dinner  about  a  year  befoi-e  his  death,  "  I 
see  thou  wilt  perform  according  to  thy  promise, 
in  providing  me  such  dishes  as  I  think  fit  whilst  I 
live,  and  when  I  die  thou  knowest  that  I  have 
left  thee  all."    After  dinner  he  used  to  walk  again 
in  the  garden  or  out  in  the  neighborhood,  with 
some  one  guiding  him ;  or  sometimes  he  would 
take  exercise  in  a  kind  of  swinging  chair  which  he 
had  contrived  ;  generally,  however,  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon,  playing  for  an  hour  on  the  or- 
gan or  the  bass-viol,  and  either  singing  himself  or 
making  his  wife  sing,  who,  he  said,  had  a  good 
voice,  but  no  ear.     An  hour  or  two  towards  even- 
ing were  again  given  to  his  books  ;  about  six  o'clock 
visitors  would  drop  in,  whom  he  would  entertain 
till  eight ;  he  then  had  olives  or  something  light 
by  way  of  supper  with  them ;  and,  after  a  pipe 
of  tobacco  and  a  glass  of  water,  he  went  to  bed. 
"  Extremely  pleasant  in  his  conversation  at  din- 
ner, supper,  &c.,  but  satirical,"  says  Aubrey,  who 
adds,  that  "  he  was  visited  by  the  learned  much 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  IXXV 

more  than  he  did  desire."  In  particular,  foreign- 
ers of  note,  when  in  London,  would  seek  him  out ; 
and,  indeed,  before  the  publication  of  Paradise 
Lost  he  was  liable  to  the  visits  of  admiring  for- 
eigners, some  of  whom,  according  to  Aubrey, 
regarded  him  as  hardly  less  a  lion  than  "  O. 
Protector  "  himself,  and  would  insist  (the  Great 
Fire  not  having  yet  done  its  work)  on  seeing  the 
house  and  chamber  w^here  he  was  born.  "  He 
was  much  more  admired  abroad,"  says  Aubrey, 
"  than  at  home."  At  home,  however,  more  es- 
pecially after  the  publication  of  his  great  epic,  he 
did  not  lack  admirers.  Which  of  the  "  quality  " 
paid  him  visits  we  do  not  know ;  but  among 
the  "people  of  distinguished  parts"  was  Dryden, 
whose  admiration  of  him  was  extreme,  and  who 
on  going  to  see  him  was,  it  is  said,  received  civilly, 
though  Milton  had  a  low  idea  of  Dry  den's  poetry. 
Hobbes  was  not  of  his  acquaintance,  nor  had  he 
any  liking  for  Hobbes,  but  acknowledged  him  to 
be  a  man  of  great  parts.  His  familiar  friends 
were  men  of  the  graver  sort,  among  whom  were 
Andrew  Marvell,  Dr.  Paget,  and  Cyriack  Skin- 
ner. He  attended  no  church  and  belonged  to  no 
particular  communion ;  nor  had  he  any  rites  of 
worship  in  his  family,  —  though  what  were  his 
reasons  for  this  was  not  very  well  known  even  to 
his  friends.  He  remained  a  theoretical  republican 
to  the  last.  His  favorite  poets  among  the  classics 
are  said  to  have  been  Homer,  Euripides,  and 
Ovid  ;  and  among  the  English,  Spenser,  Shaks- 
peare,  and  Cowley.  Aubrey  adds  that,  in  speak- 
ing or  reading,  he  pronounced  the  letter  r  very 
hard ;  " litera  canina" as  Dryden  said  to  Aubrey, 
"a  certain  sign  of  a  satirical  wit,"  From  Ell- 
wood  we  learn  that  he  could  not  endure  the  Eng- 


Ixxvi  THE    LIFE    OF   MILTON. 

lish  mode  of  pronouncing  Latin,  and  that  his  ear 
was  so  quick  that  he  knew  at  once  when  his  read- 
er had  come  to  a  sentence  which  he  did  not  un- 
derstand. 

The  date  of  Milton's  death  was  November  8, 
1674.  The  cause,  according  to  Aubrey,  was  "  gout 
struck  in  "  ;  but  his  death  was  calm  and  easy. 
He  was  then  close  upon  being  sixty-six  years  old. 
He  was  buried  beside  his  father,  in  the  church  of 
St.  Giles,  Cripplegate.  Shortly  after  his  death 
there  was  a  lawsuit  between  his  widow  and  his 
daughters  as  to  the  inheritance  of  his  remaining 
property,  which  amounted  to  about  £1500.  The 
widow  pleaded  a  nuncupative,  or  declaratory  will, 
made  by  the  deceased  before  witnesses,  to  the  ef- 
fect that  she  was  to  be  his  sole  heir,  and  that  the 
daughters,  having  been  "  very  undutiful "  to  him, 
were  to  receive  nothing  except  their  interest  in 
their  mother's  marriage-portion,  which,  though 
never  paid,  was  yet  in  good  hands  and  recover- 
able. The  decision,  however,  was  so  far  favorable 
to  the  daughters,  that  each  got  something  out  of 
the  property.  The  subsequent  history  of  the  fam- 
ily was  as  follows :  —  The  widow  survived  her 
husband  not  less  than  fifty-five  years,  dying  in 
very  old  age,  in  1729,  at  her  native  place  of 
Nantwich  in  Cheshire,  where  she  was  a  member 
of  the  Baptist  communion.  Of  the  three  daugh- 
ters, the  second,  Mary,  died  unmarried  ;  the  eldest, 
Anne,  married  rather  late  in  life  a  master-builder, 
and  died  in  her  first  child-birth  ;  and  the  young- 
est, Deborah,  alone  left  issue.  She  had  gone  over 
to  Ireland  as  companion  to  a  lady  before  her  fa- 
ther's death  ;  there  in  1674  she  married  a  Mr. 
Abraham  Clarke,  a  silk-weaver,  with  whom  she 
returned  to  London  in  or  about  1687,  and  settled 


THE    LIFE    OF    MILTON.  Ixxvii 

in  Spitalfields,  where  Addison  and  others  saw  her, 
and  asked  her  questions  about  her  father ;  and 
she  died  in  1727,  after  having  had  a  large  family, 
of  whom  only  one  son  and  one  daughter  survived. 
The  son,  who  was  named  Caleb,  went  to  the  East 
Indies,  and  died  at  Madi-as  in  1719,  leaving  chil- 
dren, whose  issue  cannot  be  traced.  The  daugh- 
ter, whose  name  was  Elizabeth,  married  a  Thomas 
Foster  of  Si^italfields,  who  afterwards  kept  a  small 
chandler's  shop  in  Holloway,  and  was  in  very  poor 
circumstances.  Some  money  was  collected  for  her 
in  1750  by  Dr.  Birch,  Johnson,  and  others ;  and 
she  died  at  Islington  in  1754,  having  had  seven 
children,  none  of  whom  survived,  or  at  least  left 
descendants.  Thus  disappeared  all  the  direct  pos- 
terity of  the  poet.  It  remains  to  be  added,  that 
his  brother  Christopher,  having  adhered  steadily 
to  his  royahst  politics,  was  knighted  by  James  II. 
in  1686,  and  became  one  of  that  king's  servile 
judges,  but  was  set  aside  at  the  Revolution,  and 
died  at  Ipswich  in  1692  ;  that  the  two  PhiHpses, 
the  poet's  nephews,  had  some  reputation  as  hack- 
writers in  the  reigns  of  James  and  his  successor ; 
and,  finally,  that  their  mother,  the  poet's  only  sis- 
ter, had  other  children  by  her  second  marriage, 
whose  descendants  are  still  to  be  traced. 


COMPLIMENTARY  VERSES. 


IN   PARADISUM  AMIS3AM   8UMMI  FOET^  JOHANiaS  MILTONl. 


Qui  legis  Amissam  Paradisum,  grandia  magni 

Carmina  Miltoni,  quid  nisi  cuncta  legis  ? 
Res  cunctas,  et  cunctanim  primordia  rerum, 

Et  fata,  et  fines  continet  iste  liber. 
Intima  panduntur  magni  penetralia  mundi; 

Scribitur  et  toto  quicquid  in  orbe  latet; 
Terraeque,  tractusque  maris,  coelumque  profundmn 

Sulphui-eumque  Erebi  flammivomumque  specus ; 
Quseque  colunt  terras,  portumque  et  Tartara  caeca, 

Quseque  colunt  summi  lucida  regna  poll ; 
Et  quodcunque  ullis  conclusum  est  finibus  usquam, 

Et  sine  fine  Chaos,  et  sine  fine  Deus; 
Et  sine  fine  magis,  si  quid  magis  est  sine  fine, 

In  Christo  erga  homines  conciliatus  amor. 
Hsec  qui  speraret  quis  crederet  esse  futurum  ? 

Et  tamen  hsec  hodie  terra  Britanna  legit. 
0  quantos  in  bella  duces !  quae  protulit  arma  I 

Quse  canit,  et  quanta,  praelia  dira  tuba. 
Ccelestes  acies !  atque  in  certamine  coelum ! 

Et  quae  ccelestes  pugna  deceret  agros ! 
Quantus  in  atheriis  toUit  se  Lucifer  armis, 

Atque  ipso  gi-aditur  vix  Michaele  minor ! 
Quantis,  et  quam  funestis  concurritur  iris 

Dum  fenis  hie  stellas  protegit,  ille  rapit ! 
Dum  vulsos  montes  ceu  tela  reciproca  torquent, 

Et  non  mortaU  desuper  igne  pluunt: 
Stat  dubius  cui  se  parti  concedat  Olympus, 

Et  metuit  pugnse  non  superesse  sua. 
At  simul  in  coelis  Messia  insignia  fulgent, 

Et  currus  animes,  armaque  digna  Deo, 
Horrendumque  rotae  strident,  et  saeva  rotarum 

Erumpunt  torvis  fulgura  luminibus, 
Et  flammse  vibrant,  et  vera  tonitrua  rauco 

Admistis  flammis  insonuere  polo, 
Excidit  attonitis  mens  omnis,  et  impetus  omnis 

Et  cassis  dextris  irrita  tela  cadunt. 


Ad  poenas  fugiimt,  et  ceu  foret  Orcus  asylum 

Infernis  certant  condere  se  tenebris. 
Cedite  Romani  scriptores,  cedite  Graii 

Et  quos  fama  recens  vel  celebravit  anus. 
Hsec  quicunque  leget  tantum  cecinisse  putabit 

Mseonidem  ranas,  Virgiliiun  culices. 

Samuel  Baekow,  M.  D. 


ON  PARADISE  LOST. 


When  I  beheld  the  poet  blind,  yet  bold, 
In  slender  book  his  vast  design  unfold, 
Messiah  crown'd,  God's  reconcil'd  decree, 
Rebelling  angels,  the  forbidden  tree. 
Heaven,  hell,  earth,  chaos,  all;  the  argument 
Held  me  awhile  misdoubting  his  intent. 
That  he  would  ruin  (for  I  saw  him  strong) 
The  sacred  truths  to  fable  and  old  song : 
(So  Sampson  grop'd  the  temple's  posts  in  spite) 
The  world  o'erwhelming  to  revenge  his  sight. 

Yet  as  I  read,  soon  growing  less  severe, 
I  lik'd  his  project,  the  success  did  fear; 
Through  that  wide  field  how  he  his  way  should  find 
O'er  which  lame  faith  leads  understanding  blind; 
Lest  he  perplex' d  the  things  he  would  explain, 
And  what  was  easy  he  should  render  vain. 

Or  if  a  work  so  infinite  he  spann'd, 
Jealous  I  was  that  some  less  skilful  hand 
(Such  as  disquiet  always  what  is  well. 
And  by  ill  imitating  would  excel) 
Might  hence  presume  the  whole  creation's  day 
To  change  in  scenes,  and  show  it  in  a  play. 

Pardon  me,  mighty  poet,  nor  despise 
My  causeless,  yet  not  impious,  surmise. 
But  I  am  now  convinc'd,  and  none  will  dare 
Within  thy  labours  to  pretend  a  share. 
Thou  hast  not  miss'd  one  thought  that  could  be  fit, 
And  all  that  was  improper  dost  omit : 
So  that  no  room  is  here  for  writers  left, 
But  to  detect  their  ignorance  or  theft. 


That  majesty  which  through  thy  work  doth  reign 
Draws  the  devout,  deterring  the  profane. 
And  things  divine  thou  treat's!  of  in  such  state 
As  them  preserves,  and  thee,  inviolate. 
At  once  delight  and  horror  on  us  seize, 
Thou  sing'st  with  so  much  gravity  and  ease, 
And  above  human  flight  dost  soar  aloft 
With  plume  so  strong,  so  equal,  and  so  soft. 
The  bird  nam'd  from  that  paradise  you  sing 
So  never  flags,  but  always  keeps  on  wing. 

Where  could'st  thou  words  of  such  a  compass  find  ? 
Whence  furnish  such  a  vast  expense  of  mind  ? 
Just  heaven  thee  like  Tiresias  to  requite 
Kewards  with  prophecy  thy  loss  of  sight. 

Well  might'st  thou  scorn  thy  readers  to  allure 
With  tinkling  rhyme,  of  thy  own  sense  secure ; 
While  the  town-baj-s  writes  all  the  while  and  spells, 
And  like  a  pack-horse  tires  without  his  bells : 
Their  fancies  like  our  bushy  points  appear, 
The  poets  tag  them,  we  for  fashion  wear. 
I  too,  transported  by  the  mode,  oflend. 
And  while  I  meant  to  praise  thee  must  commend. 
Thy  verse  created  like  thy  theme  sublime. 
In  number,  weight,  and  measure,  needs  not  rhyme. 

Andrew  Makvhl, 


VOL.   L  f 


"THE    VERSE." 

"  The  measure  is  English  Heroic  Vei'se  without 
Rime,  as  that  of  Homer  in  Greek,  and  of  Virgil 
m  Latm ;  Rime  being  no  necessary  Adjunct  or 
true  Ornament  of  Poem  or  good  Verse,  in  longer 
Works  especially,  but  the  Invention  of  a  barbarous 
Age,  to  set  off  wretched  matter  and  lame  Meeter; 
grac't  indeed  since  by  the  use  of  some  famous 
modern  Poets,  carried  away  by  Custom,  but  much 
to  thir  own  vexation,  hindrance,  and  constraint 
to  express  many  things  otherwise,  and  for  the 
most  part  worse,  then  else  they  would  have  ex- 
prest  them.  Not  without  cause,  therefore,  some 
both  Italian  and  Spanish  Poets  of  prime  note, 
have  rejected  Rime  both  in  longer  and  shorter 
Works,  as  have  also,  long  since,  our  best  English 
Tragedies,  as  a  thing  of  itself,  to  all  judicious 
eares,  triveal  and  of  no  true  musical  delight; 
which  consists  only  in  apt  Numbers,  fit  quantity 
of  Syllables,  and  the  sense  variously  drawn  out 
from  one  verse  mto  another,  not  in  the  jingUng 
sound  of  like  endings,  a  fault  avoyded  by  the 
learned  Ancients  both  in  Poetry  and  all  good 
Oratory.  This  neglect  then  of  Rime,  so  little  is 
to  be  taken  for  a  defect,  though  it  may  seem  so 
perhaps  to  vulgar  readers,  that  it  rather  is  to  be 
esteem'd  an  example  set,  the  first  in  English,  of 
ancient  liberty  recover'd  to  Heroic  Poem  from  the 
troublesom  and  modern  bondage  of  Rimeing." 


PARADISE    LOST 

m  TWELVE  BOOKS. 


PARADISE    LOST. 
BOOK  I. 

THE  AKGUMENT. 

This  first  book  proposes,  first  in  brief,  the  whole  subject, 
man's  disobedience,  and  the  loss  thereupon  of  Paradise, 
wherein  he  was  placed.  Then  touches  the  prime  cause  of 
his  fall,  the  serpent,  or  rather  Satan  in  the  serpent;  who, 
revolting  from  God,  and  drawing  to  his  side  many  legions  of 
Angels,  was  by  the  command  of  God  driven  out  of  heaven 
with  all  his  crew  into  the  great  deep.  Which  action  passed 
over,  the  Poem  hastes  into  the  midst  of  things,  presenting 
Satan  with  his  Angels  now  fallen  into  hell,  described  here, 
not  in  the  centre,  for  heaven  and  earth  may  be  supposed  as 
yet  not  made,  certainly  not  yet  accursed,  but  in  a  place  of 
utter  darkness,  fitliest  called  Chaos:  Here  Satan  with  his 
Angels  lying  on  the  burning  lake,  thunderstruck  and  asto- 
nished, after  a  certain  space  recovers,  as  from  confusion,  calls 
up  him  who  next  in  order  and  dignity  lay  by  him:  they 
confer  of  their  miserable  fall.  Satan  awakens  all  his  legions, 
who  lay  till  then  in  the  same  manner  confoiuided ;  they  rise ; 
their  numbers,  array  of  battle,  their  chief  leaders  named,  ac- 
cording to  the  idols  known  afterwards  in  Canaan  and  the 
countries  adjoining.  To  these  Satan  directs  his  speech,  com- 
forts them  with  hope  yet  of  regaining  heaven,  but  tells  them 
lastly  of  a. new  world  and  new  kind  of  creature  to  be  created, 
according  to  an  ancient  prophecy  or  report  in  heaven:  for 
that  Angels  were  long  before  this  visible  creation,  was  the 
opinion  of  many  ancient  Fathers.  To  find  out  the  truth  of 
this  prophecy,  and  what  to  determine  thereon,  he  refers  to  a 
full  council.  What  his  associates  thence  attempt.  Pandas- 
monium,  the  palace  of  Satan,  rises,  suddenly  built  out  of  the 
deep :  the  infernal  Peers  there  sit  in  covmcil. 
VOL.   I.  1 


2  PARADISE   LOST. 


Op  Man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us  and  regain  the  blissful  seat,  5 

Sing  heav'nly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret  top 
Of  Oreb,  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 
That  shepherd,  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seed, 
In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and  earth 
Rose  out  of  Chaos  ;  or  if  Sion  hill  10 

Delight  thee  more,  and  Siloa's  brook  that  flow'd 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God ;  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  advent'rous  song, 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  th'  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues  is 

Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 

And  chiefly  thou,  0  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  th'  upright  heart  and  pure. 
Instruct  me,  for  thou  know'st ;  thou  from  the  first 
Wast  present,  and  with  mighty  wings  outspread   20 
Dove-hke  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss. 
And  mad'st  it  pregnant :  what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine,  what  is  low  raise  and  support ; 

16  V.  Ariosto   Orl.   Fur.  c.  i.  st.  2.     Orlando  Innam.   di 
Boiardo,  rifac.  da  Bemi,  lib.  ii.  c.  xxx.  st.  1. 
'  Com'  awien,  che  ne  in  prosa  e  detta,  0  in  rima 
Cosa,  che  non  sia  stata  detta  prima.'    Bowie,  Pearce. 
19  Instruct]  Theoc.  Id.  xxii.  116. 

elTTE  xhoj  ci)  yap  ola&a.     Netvton. 


BOOK   I.  O 

That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 

I  may  assert  eternal  Providence,  as 

And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

Say  lii-st,  for  heav'n  hides  nothing  from  thy  view, 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  hell ;  say  first,  what  cause 
Mov'd  our  grand  parents  in  that  happy  state, 
Favour'd  of  heav'n  so  highly,  to  fall  oiF  3o 

From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  wiU 
For  one  restraint,  lords  of  the  world  besides  ? 
"Who  first  seduc'd  them  to  that  foul  revolt  ? 
Th'  infernal  serpent ;  he  it  was,  whose  guile, 
Stirr'd  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceiv'd  35 

The  mother  of  mankind,  what  time  his  pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  heav'n,  with  all  his  host 
Of  rebel  angels,  by  whose  aid  aspiring 
To  set  himself  in  glory  above  his  peers. 
He  trusted  to  have  equall'd  the  Most  High,        « 
K  he  oppos'd ;  and  with  ambitious  aim 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchy  of  God 
Rais'd  impious  war  in  heav'n  and  battle  proud, 
"With  vain  attempt.     Him  the  Almighty  Power 
Hurl'd  headlong  flaming  from  th'  ethereal  sky,   « 
"With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition,  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire, 
"Who  durst  defy  th'  Omnipotent  to  arms. 
Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day  and  night 

83   Who]  V.  Horn.  L.  i.  8.     Hume. 

48  adamantine]  v.  Spenser.     'Together  link'd  in  adaman- 
tine chaim.'    See  Todd's  Note. 


4  PARADISE    LOST. 

To  mortal  men,  he  with  his  horrid  crew 

Lay  vanquish'd,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf, 

Confounded  though  immortal :  but  his  doom 

Reserv'd  him  to  mere  wrath ;  for  now  the  thought 

Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain  as 

Torments  him  ;  round  he  throws  his  baleful  eyes, 

That  witness'd  huge  afiliction  and  dismay, 

Mix'd  with  obdurate  pride  and  stedfast  hate. 

At  once,  as  far  as  angels  ken,  he  views 

The  dismal  situation  waste  and  mid ;  eo 

A  dungeon  horrible,  on  aU  sides  round. 

As  one  great  furnace,  flam'd ;  yet  from  those  flames 

No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible 

Serv'd  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe, 

Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades,  where  peace  ss 

And  rest  can  never  dwell,  hope  never  comes, 

That  comes  to  all ;  but  torture  without  end 

Still  urges,  and  a  fiery  deluge,  fed 

With  ever-burning  sulphur  unconsum'd. 

Such  place  eternal  justice  had  prepar'd  ro 

For  those  rebellious ;  here  their  prison  ordain'd 

In  utter  darkness,  and  their  portion  set 

As  far  remov'd  from  God  and  light  of  heaven, 

As  from  the  centre  thrice  to  th'  utmost  pole. 

O  how  unlike  the  place  from  whence  they  fell !  ra 

68  darkness  visible]  v.  Senec£e  Ep.  57.  de  Crypt,  NeapoL 
'  Nihil  illis  faucibus  obscurius ;  quae  nobis  prtestant,  ut  non 
per  tenebras  videamus,  sed  ut  ipsas.'  Bentl.  MS.  [Cf.  Gower, 
Conf.  Araan.  iii.  276,  Pauli's  ed.] 

68  hope]  Compare  Jer.  Taylor's  Contemplations,  p.  211, 
and  see  Todd's  Note,  p.  18. 


BOOK   I.  5 

There  the  companions  of  his  fall,  o'erwhelm'd 
With  floods  and  whirlwinds  of  tempestuous  fire, 
He  soon  discerns,  and  welt'ring  by  his  side 
One  next  himself  in  power,  and  next  in  crime, 
Long  after  known  in  Palestine,  and  nam'd  so 

Beelzebub  :  To  whom  th'  arch-enemy. 
And  thence  in  heav'n  call'd  Satan,  with  bold  words 
Breaking  the  horrid  silence,  thus  began. 

Kthoubeesthe — But  O  how  fall'n !  howchang'd 
From  him,  who  in  the  happy  realms  of  light,      85 
Cloth'd  with  transcendent  brightness,  didst  out- 
shine 
Myriads,  though  bright !  if  he,  whom  mutual  league, 
United  thoughts  and  counsels,  equal  hope 
And  hazard  in  the  glorious  enterprize, 
Join'd  with  me  once,  now  misery  hath  join'd       so 
In  equal  ruin :  into  what  pit  thou  seest 
From  what  height  fall'n;  so  much  the  stronger  prov'd 
He  with  his  thunder.     And  till  then  who  knew 
The  force  of  those  dire  arms  ?  Yet  not  for  those, 
Nor  what  the  potent  victor  in  his  rage  sa 

Can  else  inflict,  do  I  repent,  or  change. 
Though  chang'd  in  outward  lustre,  that  fix'd  mind. 
And  high  disdain  from  sense  of  injur'd  merit. 
That  with  the  Mightiest  rais'd  me  to  contend. 
And  to  the  fierce  contention  brought  along         loo 

85  Isaiah,  xiv.  12.  Virg.  Mn.  ii.  274. 

Hei  mihi !  qualis  erat !  quantum  mutatus  ab  illo ! '  Newton. 
98  high]  Spens.  F.  Queen,  b.  i.  c.  i.  s.  19.  '  grief,  and  high 


6  PARADISE    LOST. 

Innumerable  force  of  spirits  arm'd, 
That  durst  dislike  his  reign ;  and,  me  preferring, 
His  utmost  power  with  adverse  power  oppos'd 
In  dubious  battle  on  the  plains  of  heaVn, 
And  shook  his  throne.    What  though  the  field  be 
All  is  not  lost ;  th'  unconquerable  wiU,         [lost  ? 
And  study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield. 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome  ; 
That  glory  never  shall  his  wrath  or  might  no 

Extort  from  me.     To  bow  and  sue  for  grace 
With  suppliant  knee,  and  deify  his  power, 
Who  from  the  terror  of  this  arm  so  late 
Doubted  his  empire,  that  were  low  indeed ; 
That  were  an  ignominy  and  shame  beneath       ns 
This  downfall;  since,  by  fate,  the  strength  of  gods 
And  this  empyreal  substance  cannot  fail ; 
Since  through  experience  of  this  great  event, 
In  arms  not  worse,  in  foresight  much  advanc'd. 
We  may  with  more  successful  hope  resolve        «2o 
To  wage  by  force  or  guile  eternal  war, 
Irreconcileable  to  our  grand  foe, 
Who  now  triumphs,  and  in  th'  excess  of  joy 
Sole  reigning  holds  the  tyranny  of  heav'n. 

So  spake  th'  apostate  angel,  though  in  pain,     las 
Vaunting  aloud,  but  rack'd'  with  deep  despair : 
And  him  thus  answer'd  soon  his  bold  compeer. 

O  Prince,  O  chief  of  many  throned  Powers, 
That  led  th'  embattled  seraphim  to  war 
Under  thy  conduct,  and,  in  dreadful  deeds  iso 


BOOK   I.  « 

Fearless,  endanger'd  heaven's  perpetual  King, 

And  put  to  proof  his  high  supremacy, 

Whether  upheld  by  strength,  or  chance,  or  fate ; 

Too  well  I  see  and  rue  the  dire  event. 

That  with  sad  overthrow  and  foul  defeat  las 

Hath  lost  us  heav'n,  and  all  this  mighty  host 

In  horrible  destruction  laid  thus  low, 

As  far  as  gods  and  heavenly  essences 

Can  perish  :  for  the  mind  and  spirit  remains 

Invincible,  and  vigour  soon  returns,  i« 

Though  all  our  glory  extinct,  and  happy  state 

Here  swallow'd  up  in  endless  misery. 

But  what  if  he  our  conqueror,  whom  I  now 

Of  force  beHeve  almighty,  since  no  less        [ours. 

Than  such  could  have  o'erpower'd  such  force  as 

Have  left  us  this  our  spirit  and  strength  entire, 

Strongly  to  suffer  and  support  our  pains, 

That  we  may  so  sajQ&ce  his  vengeful  ire, 

Or  do  him  mightier  service,  as  his  thralls 

isi  perpeiuail   Consult  Newton's  note  on  the  word  ^per- 
petuaV 

139  mind  and  spirit]   So  Satan  in  the  Adamus  Exsul  of 
Grotius,  p.  32,  ed.  Lauder. 

' Abstulit  sortem  Deus 

Quam  potuit,  animis  pristinum  mansit  decus, 
Et  cor,  profunda  providum  sapientia; 
Sunt  reliqua  nobis  regna,  sunt  vires  suae, 

Multa  et  potestas' 

1*>  Invincible]  v.  ^schyli  Prometheus,  ver.  1050. 

'Ef  TS  KeXaivbv 

Taprapov  ap6i]v  ()iipeis  Sijiac 
Tovubv,  avdyKTiQ  crep^ali  divaic. 


8  PARADISE    LOST. 

By  right  of  war,  whate'er  his  business  be,  iso 

Here  in  the  heart  of  hell  to  work  in  fire, 

Or  do  his  errands  in  the  gloomy  deep  : 

What  can  it  then  avail,  though  yet  we  feel 

Strength  undiminish'd,  or  eternal  being, 

To  undergo  eternal  punishment  ?  iss 

Whereto  with  speedy  words  th'  arch-fiend  reply'd. 

FaU'n  cherub,  to  be  weak  is  miserable, 
Doing  or  suffering  :  but  of  this  be  sure. 
To  do  ought  good  never  wiU  be  our  task, 
But  ever  to  do  ill  our  sole  delight ;  leo 

As  being  the  contrary  to  his  high  will. 
Whom  we  resist.     If  then  his  providence 
Out  of  our  evil  seek  to  bring  forth  good. 
Our  labour  must  be  to  pervert  that  end. 
And  out  of  good  stiU  to  find  means  of  evil ;       les 
Which  oft-times  may  succeed,  so  as  perhaps 
Shall  grieve  him,  if  I  faU  not,  and  disturb 
His  inmost  counsels  fi-om  their  destin'd  aim. 
But  see !  the  angry  victor  hath  recall'd 
His  ministers  of  vengeance  and  pursuit  i7o 

Back  to  the  gates  of  heav'n  :  the  sulphurous  hail, 
Shot  after  us  in  storm,  o'erblown  hath  laid 
The  fiery  surge,  that  from  the  precipice 
Of  heaven  receiv'd  us  falling,  and  the  thunder, 
Wing'd  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage,  "s 
Perhaps  hath  spent  his  shafts,  and  ceases  now 

168  J)oing  or  suffering]  *  Quidvis  pati,  quidvis  facere.' 
Plauti  Miles,  v.  9.  See  Pricaeum  ad  Apulei  Apolog 
p.  165. 


BOOK   I.  9 

To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundless  deep. 

Let  us  not  slip  th'  occasion,  whether  scorn 

Or  satiate  fury  yield  it  from  our  foe. 

Seest  thou  yon  dreary  plain,  forlorn  and  wild,    m 

The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light, 

Save  what  the  glimmering  of  these  livid  flames 

Casts  pale  and  dreadful  ?  thither  let  us  tend 

From  off  the  tossing  of  these  fiery  waves  ; 

There  rest,  if  any  rest  can  harbour  there,  ibs 

And,  reassembling  our  afflicted  powers. 

Consult  how  we  may  henceforth  most  offend 

Our  enemy ;  our  own  loss  how  repair ; 

How  overcome  this  dire  calamity ; 

What  reinfox'cement  we  may  gain  from  hope  ;    iso 

If  not,  what  resolution  from  despair. 

Thus  Satan  talking  to  his  nearest  mate. 
With  head  up-lift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blaz'd  ;  his  other  parts  besides 
Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and  large,      iss 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood,  in  bulk  as  huge 
As  whom  the  fables  name  of  monstrous  size, 
Titanian,  or  Earth-born,  that  warr'd  on  Jove, 
Briareiis,  or  Typhon,  whom  the  den 
By  ancient  Tarsus  held,  or  that  sea-beast 

177  To  bellow]  See  Henry  More's  Poems,  p.  314. 

'  The  hoarse  heUowing  of  the  thunder.* 
181  void]  Dante  Inf.  c.  v.  28. 

'  Lnogo  d'ogni  luce  muto.'     Todd. 
200  8ea-beasi\  'jEquoreo  similem  per  litora  monstro.' 

Vol.  Flacc.  iv.  700. 


10  PARADISE    LOST. 

Leviathan,  whicli  God  of  all  his  works 

Created  hugest  that  swim  th'  ocean  stream  : 

Him  haply  slumb'ring  on  the  Norway  foam 

The  pilot  of  some  small  night-founder'd  skiff 

Deeming  some  island,  oft,  as  seamen  tell,  a* 

With  fixed  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind 

Moors  by  his  side  under  the  lee,  while  night 

Invt^sts  the  sea,  and  wished  morn  delays  : 

So  stretch'd  out  huge  in  length  the  arch-fiend  lay, 

Chain'd  on  the  burning  lake,  nor  ever  thence     210 

Had  ris'n  or  heav'd  his  head,  but  that  the  will 

205  Deeming  some  islamdl    At  Sir  William  Drary's  house 
in  Hawstead  in  Suifolk  (built  in  regn.  Elizab.),  is  a  closet 
with  painted  pannels  of  the  age  of  James  I.     One  (no.  36.) 
is  a  ship  that  has  anchored  on  a  whale  which  is  in  motion. 
The  motto,  'nusquam  tuta  fides.'     See    Oullum's  Eid.  of 
Hawstead,  p.  164,  where  is  an  engraving  of  it. 
205  island]  Thus  Dionysii  Perieg.  598. 
a[j,(pl  6e  TvdvTT} 
Krirea  ^Iveg  ?;\;oti(Ttv,  ipv&paiov  (Sord.  ttovtov, 
Oipeatv  fi?uj3aT0LGiv  toiKora. 
And  so  in  the  Orlando  Innam.  of  Boiardo,  rifac.  da  Bemi, 
lib.  ii.  canto  xiii.  stan.  60. 

'  n  dosso  sol  mostrava  ch'  h  maggiore 
Ch'  undici  passi,  ed  anche  piii  d'altezza, 
E  veramente,  a  chi  la  guarda,  pare 
Un'  isoletta  nel  mezzo  del  mare.' 

Compare  also  Avieni  Disc.  Orbis,  p.  784-5,  and  Pia  Hila- 
ria,  p.  92.    '  Basil  affirms  that  whales  are  equal  to  the  greatest 
mountains,  and  their  backs,  when  they  show  above  the  water, 
like  to  islands.''    v.  Brerewood  on  Languages,  p.  133. 
208  InvesU]  v.  Stat.  Theb.  Ub.  v.  51. 

'  tellurem  proximus  umbra, 

Vestit  Athos.' 


BOOK   I.  11 

And  high  permission  of  all-ruling  heaven 

Left  him  at  large  to  his  own  dark  designs  ; 

That  with  reiterated  crimes  he  might 

Heap  on  himself  damnation,  while  he  sought      216 

Evil  to  others,  and  enrag'd  might  see 

How  aU  his  malice  serv'd  but  to  bring  forth 

Infinite  goodness,  grace,  and  mercy  shewn 

On  man  by  him  seduc'd  ;  but  on  himself 

Treble  confusion,  wrath,  and  vengeance  pour'd.  aw 

Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the  pool 

His  mighty  stature  ;  on  each  hand  the  flames 

Driv'n  backward  slope  their  pointing  spires,  and 

In  billows  leave  i'  th'  midst  a  horrid  vale,    [roll'd 

Then  with  expanded  wings  he  steers  his  flight  224 

Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air. 

That  felt  unusual  weight,  till  on  dry  land 

He  lights,  if  it  were  land  that  ever  burn'd 

With  solid,  as  the  lake  with  liquid,  fire  ; 

And  such  appear'd  in  hue,  as  when  the  force     230 

Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill 

Torn  from  Pelorus,  or  the  shatter'd  side 

Of  thund'ring  ^tna,  whose  combustible 

And  fuel'd  entrails  thence  conceiving  fire, 

Sublim'd  with  mineral  fury,  aid  the  winds,         2S5 

And  leave  a  singed  bottom,  all  involv'd 

With  stench  and  smoke  :  such  resting  found  the  sole 

Of  unbless'd  feet.     Him  follow'd  his  next  mate, 

282  Pehrus]  See  Dante,  Paradise,  c.  8.  ver.  68. 
'  Tra  Pachino  e  Peloro,  sopra  '1  golfo 
Che  riceve  da  Euro  maggior  briga.' 


12  PARADISE    LOST. 

Both  glorying  to  have  scap'd  the  Stygian  flood, 
As  gods,  and  by  their  own  recover'd  strength,    2« 
Not  by  the  sufferance  of  supernal  power. 

Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  chme, 
Said  then  the  lost  arch-angel,  this  the  seat 
That  we  must  change  for  heaven,  this  mournful 

gloom 
For  that  celestial  light  ?  be  it  so,  since  he,  2« 

Who  now  is  Sov'reign,  can  dispose  and  bid 
What  shall  be  right :  farthest  from  him  is  best, 
Whom  reason  hath  equall'd,  force  hath  made 

supreme 
Above  his  equals.     Farewell  happy  fields, 
Where  joy  for  ever  dwells  :  hail  horrors  ;  hail  aso 
Infernal  world ;  and  thou  profoundest  hell 
Receive  thy  new  possessor ;  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  chang'd  by  place  or  time. 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven.    255 
What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same. 
And  what  I  should  be,  all  but  less  than  he 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater  ?  here  at  least 
We  shall  be  free  ;  th'  Almighty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  his  envy,  will  not  drive  us  hence  :        aso 
Here  we  may  reign  secure,  and  in  my  choice 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  hell : 

240  reccn>er''d  strength]    Revigorate,    resumed,    recovering, 
reviving,  self-raised,  self  recovered.    Benll.  Conj.  MSS. 

241  sufferance]  Compare  Hom.  Od.  iv.  504. 

$^  /5'  atKijTC  deuv  <pvyeEt,v  fiiya  TuuTfia  ^aTidaarjc. 


BOOK   I.  13 

Better  to  reign  in  liell,  than  serve  in  heaven. 
But  wherefore  let  we  then  our  faithful  friends, 
Th'  associates  and  copartners  of  our  loss,  26s 

Lie  thus  astonish'd  on  th'  oblivious  pool. 
And  call  them  not  to  share  with  us  their  part 
In  this  unhappy  mansion ;  or  once  more 
With  rallied  arms  to  try  what  may  be  yet 
Regain'd  in  heaven,  or  what  more  lost  in  hell  ?  270 

So  Satan  spake,  and  him  Beelzebub 
Thus  answer'd :  Leader  of  those  armies  bright, 
Which  but  th'  Omnipotent  none  could  have  foil'd, 
If  once  they  hear  that  voice,  their  liveliest  pledge 
Of  hope  in  fears  and  dangers,  heard  so  oft         275 
In  worst  extremes,  and  on  the  perilous  edge 
Of  battle  when  it  rag'd,  in  all  assaults 
Their  surest  signal,  they  will  soon  resume 
New  courage  and  revive,  though  now  they  lie 
Grov'ling  and  prostrate  on  yon  lake  of  fire,        aso 
As  we  erewhile,  astounded  and  amaz'd. 
No  wonder,  faU'n  such  a  pernicious  height. 

He  scarce  had  ceas'd,  when  the  superior  fiend 
Was   moving  toward  the  shore ;    his  ponderous 

shield. 
Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round,  zas 

Behind  him  cast ;  the  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 


263  Better]  See  ^schyli  Prometheus,  ver.  968. 
Kpelaaov  yap  olfiai  r^Je  Xarpeveiv  mrp^, 
"H  Trarpl  (jnJvai  Zjjvl  mardv  uyye?ixn>. 


14  PARADISE    LOST. 

Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views 

At  ev'ning,  from  the  top  of  Fesol4 

Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands,  290 

Rivers  or  mountains  in  her  spotty  globe. 

His  spear,  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine, 

Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills  to  be  the  mast 

Of  some  great  ammiral,  were  but  a  wand, 

He  walk'd  with  to  support  uneasy  steps  296 

Over  the  burning  marie,  not  like  those  steps 

On  heaven's  azure,  and  the  torrid  cUme 

Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  with  fire. 

Nathless  he  so  indur'd,  till  on  the  beach 

Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  call'd  300 


288  optic  glass]  See  Henry  More's  Poems  (Inf.  of  Worlds): 
St.  91. 

'  But  that  experiment  of  the  optick  glasse,^ 
and  Davenant's  Gondibert,  p.  188. 

'  Or  reach  with  q)tick  tubes  the  ragged  moon.' 
293  Truist\  See  Lucilii  Sat.  lib.  xv.  1.  p.  132. 

' porro  huic  majus  bacillum 

Quam  malus  navi  in  corbita  maximus  uUa.' 
And  Ovid  Metam.  xiii.  782. 
'  Cui  postquam  pinus,  bacuh  quae  praebuit  usum, 
Ante  pedes  posita  est,  antennis  apta  ferendis.' 
Cowley's  Davideis,  lib.  ill.  ver.  47. 
'  His  spear  the  trunk  was  of  a  lofty  tree, 
Which  nature  meant  some  tall  ship's  mast  to  be.' 
Keysler's  Travels,  ii.  117.    '  They  shew  here  the  mast  of  a 
ship,  which  the  common  people  believe  to  be  the  lance  of 
Rolando  the  great.'    Pope  probably  mistook  the  sense,  when, 
in  Hom.  H.  xiii.  494,  he  says, 

'  Or  pine,  fit  mast  for  some  great  admiral.' 
Mr.  Dyce  refers  to  Quintus  Smymaeus,  lib.  v.  ver.  118. 


BOOK   I.  15 

His  legions,  angel  forms,  wlio  lay  entranc'd, 

Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strow  the  brooks 

In  Vallombrosa,  where  th'  Etrurian  shades 

High  overarch'd  imbow'r ;  or  scatter'd  sedge 

Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  arm'd        305 

Hath  vex'd  the  Red-sea  coast,  whose  waves  o'er- 

Busiris  and  his  Memphian  chivalry,  [threw 

Wliile  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursu'd 

The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 

From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcases         sic 

And  broken  chariot  wheels :  so  thick  bestrown 

Abject  and  lost  lay  these,  covering  the  flood. 

Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 

He  call'd  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 

Of  hell  resounded :  Princes,  Potentates,  3is 

Warriors,  the  flow'r  of  heaven,  once  yours,  now  lost, 

If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 

Eternal  spirits  ;  or  have  ye  chos'n  this  place 

After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 

Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find  320 

To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  heaven  ? 

Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 

To  adore  the  conqueror  ?  who  now  beholds 

Cherub  and  seraph  rolling  in  the  flood 

With  scatter'd  arms  and  ensigns,  till  anon  ks 

His  swift  pursuers  from  heaven  gates  discern 

Th'  advantage,  and  descending  tread  us  down 

Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 

Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf. 

Awake,  arise,  or  be  for  ever  fallen !  sao 


16  PARADISE    LOST. 

They  heard,  and  were  abash'd,  and  up  they 
sprung 
Upon  the  wing,  as  when  men  wont  to  watch 
On  duty,  sleeping  found  by  whom  they  dread, 
Rouse  and  bestir  themselves  ere  well  awake. 
Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight  335 

In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not  feel ; 
Yet  to  their  General's  voice  they  soon  obey'd, 
Innumerable.     As  when  the  potent  rod 
Of  Amram's  Son,  in  -^Egypt's  evU  day, 
Wav'd  round  the  coast  up  call'd  a  pitchy  cloud  a«) 
Of  locusts,  warping  on  the  eastern  wind, 
That  o'er  the  realm  of  impious  Pharaoh  hung 
Like  night,  and  darken'd  all  the  land  of  Nile : 
So  numberless  were  those  bad  angels  seen 
Hovering  on  wing  under  the  cope  of  hell,  34s 

'Twixt  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  fires ; 
Till,  as  a  signal  giv'n,  th'  uphfted  spear 
Of  their  great  Sultan  waving  to  direct 
Their  course,  in  even  balance  down  they  light 
On  the  firm  brimstone,  and  fill  all  the  plain ;      sso 
A  multitude  like  which  the  populous  north 
Pour'd  never  from  her  frozen  loins,  to  pass 
Rhene  or  the  Danaw,  when  her  barbarous  sons 
Came  Hke  a  deluge  on  the  south,  and  spread 
Beneath  Gibraltar  to  the  Libyan  sands.  36s 

8*0  pitchy  cloud] 

'  No  pitchy  storm  wrapt  up  in  swelling  clouds.' 

See  Sandy^s  Clii-isCs  Passion,  p.  67. 
353  Banaw]  so  Donne  (Progr.  of  the  Soul,  st.  11.)  p.  228. 
'  At  Tagus,  Po,  Sene,  Thames,  and  Danow  dine.' 


BOOK   I.  17 

Forthwith  from  ev'ry  squadron  and  each  band 
The  heads  and  leaders  thither  haste,  where  stood 
Their  great  commander ;  God-like  shapes  and 
Excelling  human,  princely  dignities,  [forms 

And  powers,  that  erst  in  heaven  sat  on  thrones ; 
Though  of  their  names  in  heavenly  records  now 
Be  no  memorial,  blotted  out  and  raz'd 
By  their  rebellion  from  the  books  of  life. 
Nor  had  they  yet  among  the  sons  of  Eve  3m 

Got  them  new  names ;  till  wand'ring  o'er  the  earth 
Through  God's  high  sufferance  for  the  trial  of  man, 
By  falsities  and  hes  the  greatest  part 
Of  mankind  they  corrupted  to  forsake 
God  their  creator,  and  th'  invisible 
Glory  of  him  that  made  them  to  transform         370 
Oft  to  the  image  of  a  brute,  adorn'd 
With  gay  religions  full  of  pomp  and  gold. 
And  devils  to  adore  for  deities  : 
Then  were  they  known  to  men  by  various  names, 
And  various  idols  through  the  heathen  world.     37s 
Say,  Muse,  their  names  then  known,  who  first, 
who  last, 
Rous'd  from  the  slumber  on  that  fiery  couch 
At  their  great  emp'ror's  call,  as  next  in  worth. 
Came  singly  where  he  stood  on  the  bare  strand, 

868  mdnlcind]   so  accented   on   the  first  syllable  in  Hey- 
wood's  Hierarchic,  p.  11. 

'  Tell  me,  0  thou  of  Mankind  most  accurst.' 
876  who  first]  Horn.  II.  v.  703. 

ev&a  Tiva  npuTov,  riva  6'  vcTaTOV.     Todd. 

VOL.   I.  2 


18  PARADISE    LOST. 

While  the  promiscuous  crowd  stood  yet  aloof  ?    33c 
The  chief  were  those,  who,  from  the  pit  of  hell 
Koaming  to  seek  their  prey  on  earth,  durst  fix 
Their  seats  long  after  next  the  seat  of  God, 
Their  altars  by  his  altar,  gods  ador'd 
Among  the  nations  round,  and  durst  abide  ass 

Jehovah  thund'ring  out  of  Sion,  thron'd 
Between  the  cherubim ;  yea,  often  plac'd 
Within  his  sanctuary  itself  their  shrines, 
Abominations  ;  and  with  cursed  things 
His  holy  rites  and  solemn  feasts  profan'd,  soo 

And  with  their  darkness  durst  afiront  his  light. 
First  Moloch,  horrid  king,  besmear'd  with  blood 
Of  human  sacrifice,  and  parents'  tears. 
Though  for  the  noise  of  drums  and  timbrels  loud 
Their  children's  cries  unheard,  that  past  through  fire 
To  his  grim  idol.     Him  the  Ammonite  sss 

Worship'd  in  Rabba  and  her  wat'ry  plain, 
In  Argob,  and  in  Basan,  to  the  stream 
Of  utmost  Arnon.     Nor  content  with  such 
Audacious  neighbourhood,  the  wisest  heart         400 
Of  Solomon  he  led  by  fraud  to  build 
His  temple  right  against  the  temple  of  God, 
On  that  opprobrious  hill,  and  made  his  grove 
The  pleasant  valley  of  Hinnom,  Tophet  thence 
And  black  Gehenna  call'd,  the  type  of  hell.        405 
Next  Chemos,  th'  obscene  dread  of  Moab's  sons, 
From  Aroer  to  Nebo,  and  the  wild 
Of  southmost  Abarim  ;  in  Hesebon 
And  Horonaim,  Seon's  realm,  beyond 


BOOK   I.  19 

The  flow'ry  dale  of  Sibma  clad  with  vines,         «o 
And  Eleale,  to  th'  Asphaltic  pool : 
Peor  his  other  name,  when  he  entie'd 
Israel  in  Sittim,  on  their  march  from  Nile, 
To  do  him  wanton  rites,  which  cost  them  woe. 
Yet  thence  his  lustful  orgies  he  enlarg'd  "s 

Even  to  that  hill  of  scandal,  by  the  grove 
Of  Moloch  homicide,  lust  hard  by  hate  ; 
Till  good  Josiah  drove  them  thence  to  hell. 

ith  these  came  they,  who,  from  the  bord'ring  flood 
Of  olftN^phrates  to  the  brook  that  parts  420 

^gypt  fr^&xglyrian  ground,  had  general  names 
Of  Baalim  and  ib>iitaroth,  those  male. 
These  feminine :  for  spirits  when  they  please 
Can  either  sex  assume,  or  both  ;  so  soft 
And  uncompounded  is  their  essence  pure,  «5 

Not  tied  or  manacled  with  joint  or  limb, 
Nor  founded  on  the  brittle  strength  of  bones. 
Like  cumbrous  flesh ;  but  in  what  shape  they  choose, 
Dilated  or  condens'd,  bright  or  obscure. 
Can  execute  their  airy  purposes,  430 

And  works  of  love  or  enmity  fulfil. 
For  those  the  race  of  Israel  oft  forsook 
Their  living  strength,  and  unfrequented  left 
His  righteous  altar,  bowing  lowly  down 
To  bestial  gods ;  for  which  their  heads  as  low    435 
Bow'd  down  in  battle,  sunk  before  the  spear 
Of  despicable  foes.     With  these  in  troop 

419   bwd'ring]  v.  Gen.  xv.  18.     Old  Euphrates:  v.  Gen. 
0.  14.    Newton. 


20  PARADISE   LOST. 

Came  Astoreth,  whom  the  Phoenicians  call'd 
Astax'te,  queen  of  heaven,  with  crescent  horns ; 
To  whose  bright  image  nightly  by  the  moon       440 
Sidonian  virgins  paid  their  vows  and  songs  ; 
In  Sion  also  not  unsung,  where  stood 
Her  temple  on  th'  offensive  mountain,  built 
By  that  uxorious  king,  whose  heart  though  large, 
Beguil'd  by  fair  idolatresses,  fell  «5 

To  idols  foul.     Thammuz  came  next  behind, 
Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allur'd 
The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  amorous  ditties  all  a  summer's  day. 
While  smooth  Adonis  from  his  native  rock         4so 
Ran  purple  to  the  sea,  suppos'd  wiitt  blood 
Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded  :  the  love-tale 
Infected  Sion's  daughters  with  like  heat. 
Whose  wanton  passions  in  the  sacred  porch 

*48   The  Syrian  damsels]  Compare  Bionis  Idyll,  i.  24. 
'Aaavpiov  (ioouaa  Komv,  Kot  nalda  Kokevaa. 

449  amorotis  ditties]  dolorous  ditties.    Bentl.  MS. 

461  Banpurple]  Ov.  Metam.  xii.  111. 

Purpureus  populari  offide  Calcus 

Fluxit 

See  Maundrell's  Travels,  p.  34.  We  had  the  fortune  to  see 
what  may  be  supposed  to  be  the  occasion  of  that  opinion 
which  Lucian  relates  concerning  this  river  (Adonis,  called  by 
the  Turks,  Ibrahim  Bassa,)  viz.  that  this  stream,  at  certain 
seasons  of  the  year,  especially  about  the  feast  of  Adonis,  is 
of  a  bloody  colour,  which  the  Heathens  looked  upon  as  pro- 
ceeding from  a  kind  of  sympathy  in  the  river,  for  the  death 
of  Adonis.  Something  like  this,  wo  saw,  actually  came  to 
pass,  for  the  water  was  stained  to  a  surprising  redness,  and 


BOOK   I.  21 

Ezekiel  saw,  when  by  the  vision  led  «5 

His  eyes  survey'd  the  dark  idolatries 

Of  alienated  Judah.     Nest  came  one 

Who  mourn'd  in  earnest,  when  the  captive  ark 

Maim'd  his  brute  image,  head  and  hands  lopt  oflP 

In  his  own  temple,  on  the  grunsel  edge,  «o 

Where  he  fell  flat,  and  sham'd  his  worshippers  : 

Dagon  his  name ;  sea  monster,  upward  man 

And  downward  fish :  yet  had  his  temple  high 

Rear'd  in  Azotus,  dreaded  thi'ough  the  coast 

Of  Palestine,  in  Gath,  and  Ascalon,  «5 

And  Accaron,  and  Gaza's  frontier  bounds. 

Him  foUow'd  Rimmon,  whose  delightful  seat 

Was  fair  Damascus,  on  the  fertile  banks 

Of  Abbana  and  Pharphar,  lucid  streams. 

He  also  against  the  house  of  God  was  bold  :     m 

A  leper  once  he  lost,  and  gain'd  a  king, 

Ahaz  his  sottish  conqueror,  whom  he  drew 

God's  altar  to  disparage,  and  displace 

For  one  of  Syrian  mode,  whereon  to  bum 

as  we  observed  in  travelling,  had  discoloured  the  sea  a  great 
way  into  a  reddish  hue,  occasioned  doubtless  by  a  sort  of 
minium,  or  red  earth,  washed  into  the  river  by  the  violence 
of  the  rain,  and  not  by  any  stain  from  Adonis'  blood.' 
See  also  Milton's  answer  to  Eikon  Bas.  p.  410: 

'  Let  them  who  now  mourn  for  him  as  for  Tammuz.' 
460  grunsel  edge]  See  Beaumont's  Psyche,  c.  viii.  st.  136. 
'  In  Dagon's  Temple  down  the  idol  fell. 
Quite  broke  his  godship  on  the  stronger  sell.' 
And  Quarles'  Emblems,  p.  302,  '  and  groundsild  every  floor.' 
Lisle  has  also  used  this  word  in  his  Transl.  of  Du  Bartas, 
p  96, '  to  lay  the  grunsill-plot.' 


22  PARADISE   LOST. 

His  odious  off'rings,  and  adore  the  gods  i7s 

Whom  he  had  vanquish'd.     After  these  appear'd 
A  crew,  who  under  names  of  old  renown, 
Osiris,  Isis,  Orus,  and  their  train, 
With  monstrous  shapes  and  sorceries  abus'd 
Fanatic  -^gjpt  and  her  priests,  to  seek  ^so 

Their  wand'ring  gods  disguis'd  in  brutish  forms, 
Rather  than  human.     Nor  did  Israel  'scape 
Th'  infection,  when  their  borrow'd  gold  compos'd 
The  calf  in  Oreb ;  and  the  rebel  king 
Doubled  that  sin  in  Bethel  and  in  Dan,  *ss 

Lik'ning  his  Maker  to  the  grazed  ox, 
Jehovah,  who  in  one  night,  when  he  pass'd 
From  -^gypt  marchmg,  equal'd  with  one  stroke 
Both  her  fii-st-born  and  all  her  bleating  gods. 
Belial  came  last,  than  whom  a  spirit  more  lewd  490 
Fell  not  from  heaven,  or  more  gross  to  love 
Vice  for  itself:  to  him  no  temple  stood 
Or  altar  smok'd ;  yet  who  more  oft  than  he 
In  temples  and  at  altars,  when  the  priest 
Turns  atheist,  as  did  Eli's  sons,  who  fill'd  495 

With  lust  and  violence  the  house  of  God  ? 
In  courts  and  palaces  he  also  reigns, 
And  in  luxurious  cities,  where  the  noise 
Of  riot  ascends  above  their  loftiest  towers. 
And  injury,  and  outrage :  and  when  night         soo 

489  bleating]  v.  Exod.  xii.  12.  Numb,  xxxiii.  3,  4.  and  Virg. 
^n.  viii.  698. 

'  Ommgenumque  deum  monstra,  et  latrator  Anubis.' 


BOOK    I.  23 

Darkens  the  streets,  then  wander  forth  the  sons 
Of  Belial,  flown  with  insolence  and  wine. 
Witness  the  streets  of  Sodom,  and  that  night 
In  Gibeah,  when  the  hospitable  door 
Expos'd  a  matron  to  avoid  worse  rape.  505 

These  were  the  prime  in  order  and  in  might ; 
The  rest  were  long  to  tell,  though  far  renown'd; 
Th'  Ionian  gods,  of  Javan's  issue  held 
Gods,  yet  confess'd  later  than  Heaven  and  Earth, 
Their  boasted  parents;  Titan,  Heaven's  first-born, 
With  his  enormous  brood,  and  birthright  seiz'd 
By  younger  Saturn;  he  from  mightier  Jove, 
His  own  and  Rhea's  son,  like  measure  found ; 
So  Jove  usurping  reign'd :  these  first  in  Crete 
And  Ida  known  ;  thence  on  the  snowy  top         sis 
Of  cold  Olympus  rul'd  the  middle  air, 
Their  highest  heaven  ;  or  on  the  Delphian  cliff. 
Or  in  Dodona,  and  through  all  the  bounds 
Of  Doric  land  ;  or  who  with  Saturn  old 
Fled  over  Adi-ia  to  th'  Hesperian  fields,  sm 

And  o'er  the  Celtic  roam'd  the  utmost  isles. 
All  these  and  more  came  flocking ;  but  with 

looks 
Down-cast  and  damp,  yet  such  wherein  appear'd 
Obscure  some  glimpse  of  joy,  to  have  found  their 

cliief 
Not  in  despair,  to  have  found  themselves  not  lost  525 
In  loss  itself;  which  on  his  count'nance  cast 

616  snowy]  V.  Horn.  II.  i.  420.  xviii.  616. 
OvTMfiTXOfv  vc(j)6evTOZ.    Newton 


24  PARADISE   LOST. 

Like  doubtful  hue  :  but  he,  his  wonted  pride 
Soon  recollecting,  with  high  words,  that  bore 
Semblance  of  worth  not  substance,  gently  rais'd 
Their  fainting  courage,  and  dispell'd  their  fears,  sx 
Then  straight  commands  that,  at  the  warhke  sound 
Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions,  be  uprear'd 
His  mighty  standard :  that  proud  honour  claim'd 
Azazel  as  his  right,  a  cherub  tall ; 
Who  forthwith  from  the  glittering  staff  unfurl'd  sss 
Th'  imperial  ensign,  which,  full  high  advanc'd, 
Shone  like  a  meteor,  streaming  to  the  wind, 
With  gems  and  golden  lustre  rich  imblaz'd, 
Seraphic  arms  and  trophies ;  all  the  while 
Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds  :  s^o 

At  which  the  universal  host  up  sent 
A  shout  that  tore  hell's  concave,  and  beyond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 
All  in  a  moment  tlirough  the  gloom  were  seen 
Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air  64s 

With  orient  colours  waving :  with  them  rose 
A  forest  huge  of  spears  ;  and  thronging  helms 
Appear'd,  and  serried  shields  in  thick  array 
Of  depth  immeasurable  :  anon  they  move 
In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood.  sso 

550  Dorian  mood]  See  Val.  Maximus,  Lib.  ii.  c.  6.  §  2. 
'Ejusdem  (Spartanse)  civitatis  exercitus  non  ante  ad  dimi- 
candum  descendere  solebant,  quam  tibice  concentu,  et  ana- 
psesti  pedis  modulo  cohortationis  calorem  animo  traxissent 
vegeto  et  crebro  ictus  sono.'  And  Cic  Tusc.  Quaest.  ii.  16. 
Spartiataram,  quoram  procedit  mora  ad  tibiam,  nee  adhi- 
betxir  ulla  siue  Anapajstis  pedibus  hortatio.' 


BOOK   I.  25 

Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders  ;  such  as  rais'd 
To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle  ;  and  instead  of  rage 
Deliberate  valor  breath'd,  firm,  and  unmov'd 
With  dread  of  death  to  flight  or  foul  retreat ;     555 
Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  swage 
With  solemn  touches  troubled  thoughts,  and  chase 
Anguish,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow,  and  pain, 
From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.     Thus  they. 
Breathing  united  force,  with  fixed  thought,         sm 
Mov'd  on  in  silence  to  soft  pipes,  that  charm'd 
Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil ;  and  now 
Advanc'd  in  view  they  stand,  a  horrid  front 
Of  dreadful  length  and  dazzling  arms,  in  guise 
Of  warriors  old  with  order'd  spear  and  shield,  ses 
Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty  chief 
Had  to  impose  :  he  through  the  armed  files 
Darts  his  experienc'd  eye,  and  soon  traverse 
The  whole  battalion  views  ;  their  order  due. 
Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods  ;  std 

Their  number  last  he  sums.     And  now  his  heart 
Distends  with  pride,  and  hard'ning  in  his  strength 
Glories  ;  for  never,  since  created  man. 
Met  such  imbodied  force,  as  nam'd  with  these 

651  soft  recorders]  See  Giles  Fletcher,  Eclg.  1. 

'And  while  the  sad  Recorder  sweetly  plains.' 
66''  armed  files']  read  '  ranked.'    See  book  vi.  840. 
'  Then  down  their  idle  weapons  drop.' 
How  then  could  they  have  them  here  ? — BentL  MS. 


26  PARADISE   LOST. 

Could  merit  more  than  that  small  mfantry         575 
Warr'd  on  by  cranes  ;  though  all  the  giant  brood 
Of  Phlegra  with  th'  heroic  race  were  join'd 
That  fought  at  Thebes  and  Ihum,  on  each  side 
Mix'd  with  auxiliar  gods  ;  and  what  resounds 
In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son,  sso 

Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights  ; 
And  all  who  since,  baptis'd  or  infidel, 
Jousted  in  Aspramont  or  Montalban, 
Damasco,  or  Marocco,  or  Trebisond, 
Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore,  bbs 

When  Charlemain  with  all  his  peerage  fell 
By  Fontarabia.     Thus  far  these  beyond 
Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observ'd 
Their  dread  commander :  he,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent,  sso 

Stood  like  a  tower ;  his  form  had  yet  not  lost 

576  small  infantry]  See  BasDides  Athensei,  ix.  43.  Who 
calls  the  Pigmies  fiCKpovg  avdpag  :  oi  fUKpot,  (jyrjalv,  dvdpei 
oi  rale  jepdvoLg  dLa-Ko'kejjxnivTe^.  See  also  Juliani  An- 
ticens.  Epigr.  iii.  etf  TLva  fUKpov.  ed.  Branck,  vol.  iii. 
p.  9.  ^ 

Alfian  Ilvyfialuv  rjSofiivTj  yepavoc. 
and  Ovid.  Fast.  vi.  176. 

'  Nee,  quEe  Pygmaeo  sanguine  gaudet,  avem.' 
Consult    Millin's    Monum.    Inedit.    i.    171,    and   Boissonade 
to  Philostrat.  p.  529.     Also  Plin.  Nat.  Hist.  vii.     '  Pygmsei, 
quos  a  gruibus  infestari  Homerus  quoque  prodidit.'    (Horn, 
n.  iii.  V.  7.) 
691  Stood  like  a  tower]  See  Statii  Theb.  iii.  356. 

Bello  me,  credite,  bello, 

Ceu  turrim  validam — 
See  also  n  Purgatorio  of  Dante,  v.  14.  '  Sta  come  torre  fermo ; ' 


BOOK  I.  27 

All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appear'd 
Less  than  arch-angel  ruin'd,  and  th'  excess 
Of  glory  obscur'd  :  as  when  the  sun  new-ris'n 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air,  595 

Shorn  of  his  beams ;  or  from  behind  the  moon, 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs  :  darken'd  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  th'  arch-angel :  but  his  face       eoo 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrench'd,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek,  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 
Waiting  revenge  :  cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 
Signs  of  remorse  and  passion  to  behold  eos 

The  fellows  of  his  crime,  the  followers  rather. 
Far  other  once  beheld  in  bliss,  condemn'd 
For  ever  now  to  have  their  lot  in  pain ; 

it  is  also  used  in  the  Orlando  Innamorato.    Mr.  Dyce  refers 
to  Q.  Smymaeus,  lib.  iii.  ver.  63. 

594  as  when  the  sun]  See  Dante,  II  Purg.  c.  xxx.  ver.  25. 

'  E  la  faccia  del  Sol  nascere  ombrata, 
Si  che,  per  temperanza  di  vapori 
L'  occhio  lo  sostenea  lunga  fiata.' 

698  fear  of  change]  See  Theb.  Statii.  i.  ver.  708.  '  Mutent 
quae  Sceptra  Cometae.'  Val.  Flacc.  Arg.  lib.  vi.  ver.  608. 
'  fatales  ad  regra  injusta  Cometas.'  And  Crashaw's  Steps  to 
the  Temple,  p.  59. 

'  Staring  Comets,  that  look  kingdoms  dead.' 
See  his  Tutor  A.  Gill's  Poems,  p.  5. 

Ovdelg  KOfiTirrjc  oaug  6v  kokov  (pepei. 


28  PARADISE   LOST. 

Millions  of  spirits  for  his  fault  amerc'd 
Of  heaven,  and  from  eternal  splendors  flung      eio 
For  his  revolt,  yet  faithful  how  they  stood. 
Their  glory  wither'd  :  as  when  heaven's  fire 
Hath  scath'd  the  forest  oaks  or  mountain  pines, 
With  singed  top  their  stately  growth,  though  bare, 
Stands  on  the  blasted  heath.     He  now  prepar'd  ew 
To  speak  ;  whereat  their  doubled  ranks  they  bend 
From  wing  to  wing,  and  half  inclose  him  round 
With  all  his  peers  :  attention  held  them  mute. 
Thrice  he  assay'd,  and  thrice  in  spite  of  scorn 
Tears,  such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth ;  at  last  620 
Words  interwove  with  sighs  found  out  their  way. 

O  myriads  of  immortal  spirits,  0  powers 
Matchless,  but  with  th'  Almighty,  and  that  strife 
Was  not  inglorious,  though  th'  event  was  dire. 
As  this  place  testifies,  and  this  dire  change        62s 
Hateful  to  utter  :  but  what  power  of  mind. 
Foreseeing  or  presaging,  from  the  depth 


609  amerc'd]  See  Quarles'  Divine  Poems,  p.  18. 

'  T'  avoid  the  Ninevites  do  I  amerce 
Myself 

610  fltmg]  See  Beaumont's  Psyche,  c.  xx.  st.  144. 

'And  sigh'd  and  sobb'd  to  think  whence  he  was  flung." 
614  tiieir  stately  growth]  See  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  N.  5. 

•As  when  some  stately  growth  of  oak  or  pine.' 
620  Tears]   Compare  Xenoph.   Anabas.  1.  iii.  2.     '  Svvii- 
yayev  tKKhjGiav    tCtv  uvtov   arpaTiuruv,  koI   irpurov  fiev 
kdaKpve  TzoTiVV  xpovov  earcjf,  ol  6e  bpuvTeg   t&avfia^ov  kuI 
iaiumjv,  eha  ekc^e  rade.' 


BOOK   I.  29 

Of  knowledge  past  or  present,  could  have  fear'd, 
How  such  united  force  of  gods,  how  such 
As  stood  like  these,  could  ever  know  repulse  ?  sao 
For  who  can  yet  believe,  though  after  loss. 
That  all  these  puissant  legions,  whose  exile 
Hath  emptied  heaven,  shall  fail  to  reascend 
Self-rais'd,  and  repossess  their  native  seat  ? 
For  me,  be  witness  all  the  host  of  heaven,  ess 

If  counsels  different  or  danger  shunn'd 
By  me  have  lost  our  hopes  :  but  he,  who  reigns 
Monarch  in  heaven,  till  then  as  one  secure 
Sat  on  his  throne,  upheld  by  old  repute. 
Consent,  or  custom,  and  his  regal  state  sm 

Put  forth  at  full,  but  still  his  strength  conceal'd. 
Which  tempted  our  attempt,  and  wrought  our  fall. 
Henceforth,  his  might  we  know,  and  know  our  own, 
So  as  not  either  to  provoke,  or  dread 
New  war,  provok'd  ;  our  better  part  remains     eis 
To  work  in  close  design,  by  fraud  or  guile, 
What  force  effected  not ;  that  he  no  less 
At  length  from  us  may  find,  who  overcomes 
By  force,  hath  overcome  but  half  his  foe. 
Space  may  produce  new  worlds,  whereof  so  rife  eso 
There  went  a  fame  in  heaven,  that  he  ere  long 
Intended  to  create,  and  therein  plant 
A  generation,  whom  his  choice  regard 
Should  favour  equal  to  the  sons  of  heaven  : 
Thither,  if  but  to  pry,  shall  be  perhaps  ex 

642  tempted]  Sylvester's  Du  Bartas,  p.  827. 
'  She  dared,  and  did  attempt  to  iempt  me  too.'     Todd. 


30  PARADISE    LOST. 

Our  first  eruption  —  thither  or  elsewhere  ; 
For  this  infernal  pit  shall  never  hold 
Celestial  spirits  in  bondage,  nor  th'  abyss 
Long  under  darkness  cover.     But  these  thoughts 
Full  counsel  must  mature  :  peace  is  despair'd  ;  m 
For  who  can  think  submission  ?  war  then,  war 
Open  or  understood,  must  be  resolv'd. 

He  spake  :  and  to  confirm  his  words  outflew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the  thighs 
Of  mighty  cherubim  ;  the  sudden  blaze  sos 

Far  round  illumin'd  hell :  highly  they  rag'd 
Against  the  highest,  and  fierce  with  grasped  arms 
Clash'd  on  their  sounding  shields  the  din  of  war, 
Hurling  defiance  toward  the  vault  of  heaven. 

There  stood  a  hill  not  far,  whose  grisly  top    «7o 
Belch'd  fire  and  rolling  smoke ;  the  rest  entire 
Shone  with  a  glossy  scurf,  undoubted  sign 
That  in  his  womb  was  hid  metalHc  ore, 
The  work  of  sulphur.    Thither,  wing'd  with  speed, 
A  numerous  brigade  hasten'd  ;  as  when  bands     ers 
Of  pioneers,  with  spade  and  pickaxe  arm'd, 
Forerun  the  royal  camp,  to  trench  a  field, 
Or  cast  a  rampart.     Mammon  led  them  on, 

669  vault  of  heaven]  Doctor  Pearce  approves  Bentley's  con- 
jecture, '  walls  of  heaven,'  and  says  the  emendation  is  good. 
But  I  must  differ  from  the  opinions  of  both  critics,  and  con- 
sider that  this  reading  would  much  impair  the  beauty  of  the 
passage. 

'  Clash'd  on  their  sownding  shields  the  din  of  war. 
Hurling  defiance  toward  the  vault  of  heaven,' 
which  collected  and  reverberated  the  clash  of  the  shields. 


BOOK   I.  31 

Mammon,  the  least  erected  spirit  that  fell 
From  heaven ;  for  ev'n  in  heaven  his  looks  and 

thoughts  m 

Were  always  do\vnward  bent,  admiring  more 
The  riches  of  heaven's  pavement,  trodden  gold, 
Than  aught  divine  or  holy  else  enjoy'd 
In  vision  beatific.     By  him  first 
Men  also,  and  by  his  suggestion  taught,  ess 

Ransack'd  the  centre,  and  with  impious  hands 
Rifled  the  bowels  of  their  mother  earth 
For  treasures  better  hid.     Soon  had  his  crew 
Open'd  into  the  hill  a  spacious  wound, 
And  digg'd  out  ribs  of  gold.     Let  none  admire  eso 
That  riches  grow  in  hell :  that  soil  may  best 
Deserve  the  precious  bane.     And  here  let  those 
Wlio  boast  in  mortal  things,  and  wond'ring  tell 
Of  Babel  and  the  works  of  Memphian  kings. 
Learn  how  their  greatest  monuments  of  fame     sss 
In  strength  and  art  ai-e  easily  outdone 
By  spirits  reprobate,  and  in  an  hour 
What  in  an  age  they,  with  incessant  toil 
And  hands  innumerable,  scarce  perform. 
Nigh  on  the  plain  in  many  cells  prepai-'d,  too 

That  underneath  had  veins  of  Hquid  fire 
Sluic'd  from  the  lake,  a  second  multitude 
With  wond'rous  art  founded  the  massy  ore, 

687  Hi/led]  V.  Ovid  Met.  i.  138. 

'  Itum  est  in  viscera  ten-re. 

Quasque  recondiderat,  Stygiisque  admoverat  umbris, 
Effodiuntur  opes.'  Hume. 


32  PARADISE    LOST. 

Severing  each  kind,  and  scumm'd  the  bullion  dross. 
A  third  as  soon  had  form'd  within  the  ground    tos 
A  various  mould,  and  from  the  boiling  cells 
By  strange  conveyance  fill'd  each  hollow  nook : 
As  in  an  organ  from  one  blast  of  wind 
To  many  a  row  of  pipes  the  sound-board  breathes. 
Anon  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge  'lo 

Rose,  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet, 
Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 
Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 
With  golden  architrave  ;  nor  did  there  want      tis 
Cornice  or  frieze  with  bossy  sculptures  grav'n. 
The  roof  was  fretted  gold.     Not  Babylon, 
Nor  great  Alcairo  such  magnificence 
Equall'd  in  all  their  glories,  to  inshrine 
Belus  or  Serapis  their  gods,  or  seat  tm 

Their  kings,  when  JEgypt  with  Assyria  strove 
In  wealth  and  luxury.     Th'  ascending  pile 
Stood  fixt  her  stately  height,  and  straight  the  doors, 
Op'ning  their  brazen  folds,  discover,  wide 
Within,  her  ample  spaces,  o'er  the  smooth  725 

And  level  pavement :  from  the  arched  roof, 
Pendant  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 
Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 

TO6  A.  various  mould]  '  capacious  mould.'     Bentl.  MS. 
711  Rose\  '  Did  like  a  shooting  exhalation  glide.' 

See  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leamder,  p.  81. 
714  Doric  inllars] 

'  There  findest  thou  some  stately  Doric  frame.' 
See  HaWs  Satires,  ed.  Singer,  p.  133. 


BOOK  I.  33 

With  Naptha  and  Asphaltus,  yielded  light 
As  from  a  sky.     The  hasty  multitude  ^m 

Admiring  enter'd,  and  the  work  some  praise, 
And  some  the  architect :  his  hand  was  known 
In  heaven  by  many  a  tower'd  structure  high, 
Where  scepter'd  angels  held  their  residence. 
And  sat  as  princes ;  whom  the  supreme  King    735 
Exalted  to  such  power,  and  gave  to  rule. 
Each  in  his  hierarchy,  the  orders  bright. 
Nor  was  his  name  unheard  or  unador'd 
In  ancient  Greece  ;  and  in  Ausonian  land 
Men  call'd  him  Mulciber ;  and  how  he  fell         740 
From  heaven  they  fabled,  thrown  by  angiy  Jove 
Sheer  o'er  the  crystal  battlements  ;  from  mom 
To  noon  he  fell,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A  summer's  day ;  and  with  the  setting  sun 
Dropt  from  the  Zenith  like  a  falhng  star,  745 

On  Lemnos  th'  -^gean  isle  ;  thus  they  relate, 
En-ing  ;  for  he  with  this  rebellious  rout 
Fell  long  before ;  nor  aught  avail'd  him  now 
To  have  built  in  heaven  high  tow'rs  ;  nor  did  he 

scape 
By  all  his  engines,  but  was  headlong  sent  750 

With  his  industrious  crew  to  build  in  hell. 

742  crystal  battlements]  See  Beaumont's  Psyche,  cxx.  110. 

Much  higher  than  the  proudest  battlement  of  the  old  heavens.' 

See  Don  Quixote,  vol.  3.  p.  156,  (trans.    Shelton,   12mo. 

1731.)    'I  saw  a  princely  and  sumptuous  palace,  whose  walls 

and  battlements  seemed  to  be  made  of  transparent  crystal;" 

and  Miltoni  Sylv.  vol.  iii.  p.  303,  v.  63. 

'  ventum  est  Olympi,  et  regiam  crystallinam.' 
VOL.   I.  3 


34  PARADISE    LOST. 

Mean  while  the  winged  heralds  by  command 
Of  sov'reign  power,  with  awful  ceremony 
And  trumpets'  sound,  throughout  the  host  proclaim 
A  solemn  council  forthwith  to  be  held  'ss 

At  Pandsemonium,  the  high  capital 
Of  Satan  and  his  peers :  their  summons  call'd 
From  every  band  and  squared  regiment 
By  place  or  choice  the  worthiest ;  they  anon 
With  hundreds  and  with  thousands  trooping  came 
Attended :  all  access  was  throng'd,  the  gates 
And  porches  wide,  but  chief  the  spacious  hall. 
Though  like  a  cover'd  field,  where  champions  bold 
Wont  ride  in  arm'd,  and  at  the  Soldan's  chair 
Defi'd  the  best  of  Panim  chivalry  76s 

To  mortal  combat  or  career  with  lance. 
Thick  swarm'd,  both  on  the  ground  and  in  the  air, 
Brush'd  with  the  hiss  of  rustling  wings.    As  bees 
In  spring  time,  when  the  sun  with  Taurus  rides. 
Pour  forth  their  populous  youth  about  the  hive 
In  clusters ;  they  among  fresh  dews  and  flowers 
Fly  to  and  fro,  or  on  the  smoothed  plank. 
The  suburb  of  their  straw-built  citadel. 
New  rubb'd  with  balm,  expatiate,  and  confer 

752  Haralds]  Par.  Lost,  eel.  1  and  2.     Steevens'  Shakesp. 
(Pericles)  ed.  1793,  vol.  xiii.  p.  489. 
769   Taurus]  v.  Virg.  Georg.  i.  217. 
'  Candidas  auratis  aperit  cum  cornibus  annum 
Taurus.'     Rume. 

774  expatiate]  i.  e.  walk  abroad,    v.  Virg.  .^n.  iv.  62.     Cic. 
Orat.  iii.    '  Ut  palsestrice  spatiari.'     Todd. 


BOOK   I,  35 

Their  state  affairs  :  So  thick  the  aery  crowd      "s 
Swarm'd  and  were  straiten'd ;  till,  the  signal  giv'n, 
Behold  a  wonder !  they,  but  now  who  seem'd 
In  bigness  to  surpass  earth's  giant  sons, 
Now  less  than  smallest  dwarfs,  in  narrow  room 
Throng  numberless,  like  that  Pygmean  race       ^so 
Beyond  the  Indian  mount,  or  fairy  elves, 
Whose  midnight  revels,  by  a  forest  side, 
Or  fountain,  some  belated  peasant  sees, 
Or  dreams  he  sees,  while  over  head  the  moon 
Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  earth  tss 

Wheels  her  pale  course  ;   they,  on  their  mirth 

and  dance 
Intent,  with  jocund  music  charm  his  ear ; 
At  once  with  joy  and  fear  his  heart  rebounds. 
Thus  incorporeal  spirits  to  smallest  forms 
Reduc'd  their  shapes  immense,  and  were  at  large,  790 
Though  without  number  still,  amidst  the  hall 
Of  that  infernal  court.     But  far  within. 
And  in  their  own  dimensions  like  themselves, 
The  great  seraphic  lords  and  cherubim 
In  close  recess  and  secret  conclave  sat,  tss 

A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats. 
Frequent  and  full.     After  short  silence  then 
And  summons  read,  the  great  consult  began. 

TM  dreams]  See  Ap.  Khod.  Arg.  iv.  1479.    Virg.  iEn.  vi. 
454.     Todd. 
785  arbitress]  v.  Hor.  Ep.  v.  50. 

'  Non  infideles  curUtra 

Nox  et  Diana.'     Heylin. 


36 

PARADISE    LOST. 
BOOK  n. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

The  consultation  begun,  Satan  debates  whether  another  bat 
tie  be  to  be  hazarded  for  the  recovery  of  heaven :  some  ad- 
vise it,  others  dissuade.  A  third  proposal  is  preferred,  men- 
tioned before  by  Satan,  to  search  the  truth  of  that  prophecy 
or  tradition  in  heaven  concerning  another  world,  and  another 
kind  of  creature,  equal,  or  not  much  inferior,  to  themselves, 
about  this  time  to  be  created :  their  doubt  who  shall  be  sent 
on  this  difficult  search :  Satan  their  chief  undertakes  alone 
the  voyage,  is  honoured  and  applauded.  The  council  thus 
ended,  the  rest  betake  them  several  ways,  and  to  several  em- 
ployments, as  their  inclinations  lead  them,  to  entertain  the 
time  till  Satan  return.  He  passes  on  his  journey  to  hell 
gates,  finds  them  shut,  and  who  sat  there  to  guard  them,  by 
whom  at  length  they  are  opened,  and  discover  to  him  the 
great  gulf  between  hell  and  heaven:  with  what  difficulty 
he  passes  through,  directed  by  Chaos,  the  Power  of  tliat 
place,  to  the  sight  of  this  new  world  which  he  sought. 

High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind, 
Or  where  the  gorgeous  east  with  richest  hand 

1  Mgh]  Compare  with  this  the  opening  of  the  second  book 
of  Ovid's  Metam. 

'  Regia  solis  erat,'  &c. 

2  Ormm]  See  View  of  Onnus,  in  Buckingham's  Travels  in 
Assyria,  p.  428,  4to. 


BOOK  II.  37 

Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold, 
Satan  exalted  sat,  by  merit  rais'd  e 

To  that  bad  eminence  ;  and,  from  despair 
Thus  high  uplifted  beyond  hope,  aspires 
Beyond  thus  high,  insatiate  to  pursue 
Vain  war  with  heaven,  and,  by  success  untaught, 
His  proud  imaginations  thus  display'd.  w 

Powers  and  Dominions,  Deities  of  heaven  — 
For  since  no  deep  within  her  gulf  can  hold 
Immortal  vigor,  though  oppress'd  and  fall'n, 
I  give  not  heaven  for  lost :  from  this  descent 
Celestial  virtues  rising  will  appear  's 

More  glorious  and  more  dread,  than  from  no  fall, 
And  trust  themselves  to  fear  no  second  fate. 
Me  though  just  right  and  the  fix'd  laws  of  heaven 
Did  first  create  your  leader,  next  free  choice, 
With  what  besides,  in  council  or  in  fight,  20 

Hath  been  achiev'd  of  merit ;  yet  this  loss. 
Thus  far  at  least  recover'd,  hath  much  more 
Establish'd  in  a  safe  unenvied  throne. 
Yielded  with  full  consent.     The  happier  state 
In  heaven,  which  follows  dignity,  might  draw      25 
Envy  from  each  inferior  ;  but  who  here 
Will  envy  whom  the  highest  place  exposes 
Foremost  to  stand  against  the  Thund'rer's  aim, 
Your  bulwark,  and  condemns  to  greatest  share 

4  Barbaric]  Lucret.  lib.  ii.  500.  '  Barbaricse  vestes.'    Eu- 
ripid.  Iph.  Aul.  73.   deParide: 

XpvaiJ  TE  TMffKpog,  jSapfiapu  ;i/l/(5^juan. 
and  Virg.  Mn.  ii.  604. 


38  PARADISE    LOST. 

Of  endless  pain  ?  Where  there  is  then  no  good  so 

For  which  to  strive,  no  strife  can  grow  up  there 

From  faction ;  for  none  sure  will  claim  in  hell 

Precedence,  none,  whose  portion  is  so  small 

Of  present  pain,  that  with  ambitious  mind 

Will  covet  more.     With  this  advantage  then       35 

To  union,  and  firm  faith,  and  firm  accord, 

More  than  can  be  in  heaven,  we  now  return 

To  claim  our  just  inheritance  of  old, 

Surer  to  prosper  than  prosperity 

Could  have  assur'd  us  ;  and  by  what  best  way,  « 

Whether  of  open  war  or  covert  guile. 

We  now  debate  ;  who  can  advise,  may  speak. 

He  ceas'd;  and  next  him  Moloch,  scepter'd  king, 
Stood  up,  the  strongest  and  the  fiercest  spirit 
That  fought  in  heaven,  now  fiercer  by  despair :  45 
His  trust  was  with  th'  Eternal  to  be  deem'd 
Equal  in  strength,  and  rather  than  be  less 
Car'd  not  to  be  at  all ;  with  that  care  lost 


88  our  just  inheritance]  See  Crashaw's  Steps  to  the  Temple, 
p.  64.  (1646.) 

'  And  for  the  never  fa^ngjields  of  light, 
My  fair  inheritance,  he  confines  me  here: ' 

and  Beaumont's  Psyche,  c.  i.  st.  24. 

*  Was't  not  enough  against  the  righteous  law 
Of  primogenitm-e  to  throw  us  down, 
From  that  bright  home  which  all  the  world  does  know 
Was  by  confest  inheritance  our  own.' 

40  best  way]  Compare  Spenser's  F.  Queen,  vii.  vi.  21.  and 
u.  xi.  7.     Todd. 


BOOK   TI.  39 

Went  all  his  fear  :  of  God,  or  hell,  or  worse. 
He  reck'd  not ;  and  these  words  thereafter  spake : 
My  sentence  is  for  open  war :  of  wiles,  si 

More  unexpert,  I  boast  not :  them  let  those 
Contrive  who  need,  or  when  they  need,  not  now : 
For  while  they  sit  contriving,  shall  the  rest, 
Millions  that  stand  in  arms  and  longing  wait       ss 
The  signal  to  ascend,  sit  hng'ring  here 
Heaven's  fugitives,  and  for  their  dwelling-place 
Accept  this  dark  opprobrious  den  of  shame, 
The  prison  of  his  tyranny  who  reigns 
By  our  delay  ?  no,  let  us  rather  choose,  m 

Ai'm'd  with  heU  flames  and  fury,  aU  at  once 
O'er  heaven's  high  tow'rs  to  force  resistless  way, 
Turning  our  tortures  into  horrid  arms 
Asainst  the  torturer  ;  when  to  meet  the  noise 
Of  his  almighty  engine  he  shall  hear  as 

Infernal  thunder,  and  for  lightning  see 
Black  fire  and  horror  shot  with  equal  rage 
Among  liis  angels  ;  and  his  throne  itself 


64  sit  contriving]    See   Blilton's   Prose  Works,  vol.  ii.  380, 
iii.  24.     '  But  to  sit  contriving.' 
67  Black  Jire]  See  ^schyli  Prometheus,  ver.  922. 
"Of  (5^  Kspavvov  Kpeiaaov''  eipiian  <pi6ya, 
BpovTfjC  •&'  VTveppdTCkovTa  Kaprepov  KTvnov. 
and  see  Statii  Theb.  iv.  1.33.  'furiarum  lampade  nigra.'    Silv 
L  iv.  64.    'fulminis  atri.'  Lucan  Ph.  ii.  301.  '  ignes  atros.' 
'  I  talk  of  flames,  and  yet  I  call  hell  dark ; 
Flames  I  confess  they  are,  but  black.' 
See  M.  Stevenson's    Poems    (1654),  p.    113,  (A  Guesse  at 
Hell.)    [Cf.  Gower's  Conf.  Aman.  iii.  270,  Pauli's  el.] 


40  PARADISE    LOST. 

Mixt  with  Tartarean  sulphur  and  strange  fire, 

His  own  invented  torments.     But  perhaps  w 

The  way  seems  difficult  and  steep  to  scale 

"With  upright  wing  against  a  higher  foe. 

Let  such  bethink  them,  if  the  sleepy  drench 

Of  that  forgetful  lake  benumb  not  still, 

That  in  our  proper  motion  we  ascend  w 

Up  to  our  native  seat :  descent  and  fall 

To  us  is  adverse.     Who  but  felt  of  late, 

When  the  fierce  foe  hung  on  our  broken  rear 

Insulting,  and  pursu'd  us  through  the  deep, 

With  what  compulsion  and  laborious  flight  w 

We  sunk  thus  low  ?  Th'  ascent  is  easy  then ; 

Th'  event  is  fear'd.     Should  we  again  pi'ovoke 

Our  stronger,  some  worse  way  his  wrath  may  find 

To  our  destruction,  if  there  be  in  hell 

Fear  to  be  worse  destroy'd.  What  can  be  worse  ss 

Than  to  dwell  here,  driven  out  from  bliss,  condemn'd 

In  this  abhorred  deep  to  utter  woe  ; 

Where  pain  of  unextinguishable  fire 

Must  exercise  us  without  hope  of  end. 

The  vassals  of  his  anger,  when  the  scourge  so 

Inexorable,  and  the  torturing  hour 

Calls  to  us  penance  ?  more  destroy'd  than  thus 

69  strange  jire]  See  Nonni  Dionysiaca,  lib.  xliv.  ver.  liO. 
Ei  6e  K£  necpf/aatTO  koX  rjiiETepoto  Kepavvov, 
TvuaeTai,  olov  ex^  X^oviov  ae2,a('  ovpaviov  yhp 
QepjioTEpovg  amvd/jpac  ijibv  "kaxEv  avTLTVKOv  nvp. 

89  exercise'\  Vex,  trouble:  v.  Virg.  Georg.  iv.  453. 
'  Nou  te  nullius  exercent  numinis  ira.'     Newton 


BOOK   II.  41 

We  should  be  quite  abolish'd  and  expire. 

What  fear  we  then  ?  what  doubt  we  to  incense 

His  utmost  ire  ?  which,  to  the  highth  enrag'd,     "5 

Will  either  quite  consume  us,  and  reduce 

To  nothing  this  essential ;  happier  far. 

Than  miserable  to  have  eternal  being. 

Or,  if  our  substance  be  indeed  divine, 

And  cannot  cease  to  be,  we  are  at  worst  loo 

On  this  side  nothing  ;  and  by  proof  we  feel 

Our  power  sufficient  to  disturb  his  heaven. 

And  with  perpetual  inroads  to  alarm. 

Though  inaccessible,  his  fatal  throne : 

Which,  if  not  victory,  is  yet  revenge.  ws 

He  ended  frowning,  and  his  look  denounc'd 
Desperate  revenge  and  battle  dangerous 
To  less  than  gods.     On  th'  other  side  up  rose 
Belial,  in  act  more  graceful  and  humane ; 
A  fairer  person  lost  not  heaven  ;  he  seem'd       no 
For  dignity  compos'd  and  high  exploit : 
But  all  was  false  and  hollow ;  though  his  tongue 
Dropp'd  manna,  and  could  make  the  worse  appear 
The  better  reason,  to  perplex  and  dash 
Maturest  counsels  ;  for  his  thoughts  were  low ;  ns 
To  vice  industrious,  but  to  nobler  deeds 

113  worse]  Val.  Flacc.  Arg.  lib.  iii.  ver.  645. 

'  Rursiim  instimulat,  ducitque  faventea 

Magnanimus  Calydone  satus ;  potioribus  ille 
Deteriora  foveas,  semperque  inversa  tueri 
Durus.' 

11*  better]  tov  t/ttu  Tioyov  KpecTTU  noiuv, 

Plato,  Ap.  Soc.  IL 


42  PARADISE    LOST. 

Timorous  and  slothful :  yet  he  pleas'd  the  ear, 
And  with  persuasive  accent  thus  began. 

I  should  be  much  for  open  war,  O  Peers, 
As  not  behind  in  hate,  if  what  was  urg'd,  120 

Main  reason  to  persuade  immediate  war. 
Did  not  dissuade  me  most,  and  seem  to  cast 
Ominous  conjecture  on  the  whole  success ; 
When  he,  who  most  excels  in  fact  of  arms, 
In  what  he  counsels  and  in  what  excels  125 

Mistrustful,  grounds  his  courage  on  despair 
And  utter  dissolution,  as  the  scope 
Of  all  his  aim,  after  some  dire  revenge. 
First,  what  revenge  ?  the  tow'rs  of  heaven  are  fill'd 
"With  armed  watch,  that  render  all  access  i3o 

Impregnable  ;  oft  on  the  bordering  deep 
Encamp  their  legions,  or  with  obscure  wing 
Scout  far  and  wide  into  the  realm  of  night. 
Scorning  surprise.     Or  could  we  break  our  way 
By  force,  and  at  our  heels  all  hell  should  rise,   135 
With  blackest  insurrection  to  confound 
Heaven's  purest  light,  yet  our  great  enemy 
All  incorruptible  would  on  his  throne 
Sit  unpolluted ;  and  th'  ethereal  mould 
Incapable  of  stain  would  soon  expel  140 

Her  mischief,  and  purge  oflP  the  baser  fire. 
Victorious.     Thus  repuls'd,  our  final  hope 

181  bordering  deep]  See  Wither's  Campo  Musae,  p.  26. 
'  And  to  possess  the  bordering  hills.' 

1*2  our  hope]  Shakesp.  K.  Hen.  VI.  act  ii.  scene  iii. 
'  Our  hap  is  loss,  our  hope  but  sad  despair.''    Malone. 


BOOK   II.  43 

Is  flat  desj)air  :  we  must  exasperate 

Th'  almighty  Victor  to  spend  all  his  rage, 

And  that  must  end  us,  that  must  be  our  cure,    145 

To  be  no  more  :  sad  cure  !  for  who  would  lose, 

Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being, 

Those  thoughts  that  wander  through  eternity, 

To  perish  rather,  swallow'd  up  and  lost 

In  the  wide  womb  of  uncreated  night,  m 

Devoid  of  sense  and  motion  ?  and  who  knows, 

Let  this  be  good,  whether  our  angry  foe 

Can  give  it,  or  wiU  ever  ?  how  he  can, 

Is  doubtful ;  that  he  never  will,  is  sure. 

Will  he,  so  wise,  let  loose  at  once  his  ire,  iss 

Belike  through  impotence  or  unaware. 

To  give  his  enemies  their  wish,  and  end 

Them  in  his  anger  whom  his  anger  saves 

To  punish  endless  ?     Wherefore  cease  we  then  ? 

Say  they  who  counsel  war  ; — We  are  decreed,  m 

Reserv'd,  and  destin'd  to  eternal  woe  ; 

Whatever  doing,  what  can  we  suffer  more. 

What  can  we  suffer  worse  ? — Is  this  then  worst, 

Thus  sitting,  thus  consulting,  thus  in  arms  ? 

What,  when  we  fled  amain,  pursu'd  and  struck  iss 

With  heaven's  afflicting  thunder,  and  besought 

The  deep  to  shelter  us  ?  this  hell  then  seem'd 

A  refuge  from  those  wounds.     Or  when  we  lay 

Chain'd   on   the   burning   lake?    that   sure    was 

worse. 
What  if  the  breath  that  kindled  those  grim  fires  iro 
Awak'd  should  blow  them  into  sevenfold  rage, 


44  PARADISE   LOST. 

And  plunge  us  in  the  flames  ?  or  from  above 
Should  intermitted  vengeance  arm  again 
His  red  right  hand  to  plague  us  ?  what,  if  all 
Her  stores  were  open'd  and  this  firmament        »t5 
Of  hell  should  spout  her  cataracts  of  fire, 
Impcmdent  horrors,  threatening  hideous  fall 
One  day  upon  our  heads ;  while  we,  perhaps 
Designing  or  exhorting  glorious  war, 
Caught  in  a  fiery  tempest  shall  be  hurl'd  iso 

Each  on  his  rock  transfix'd,  the  sport  and  prey 
Of  racking  whirlwinds  ;  or  for  ever  sunk 
Under  yon  boiling  ocean,  wrapt  in  chains  ; 
There  to  converse  with  everlasting  groans, 
Unrespited,  unjDitied,  unrepriev'd,  las 

Ages  of  hopeless  end  ?  this  would  be  worse. 
War  therefore,  open  or  conceal'd,  alike 
My  voice  dissuades ;  for  what  can  force  or  guUe 
With  him,  or  who  deceive  his  mind,  whose  eye 
Views  all  things  at  one  view  ?     He  from  heaven's 
highth  190 

All  these  our  motions  vain  sees  and  derides ; 
Not  more  almighty  to  resist  our  might, 
Than  wise  to  frustrate  all  our  plots  and  wiles- 
Shall  we  then  live  thus  vile,  the  race  of  heaven, 

174  His]  Consult  Bentley,  and  Newton's  Notes  on  the  ap- 
plication of  the  Relative.  '  Red  right  hand  '  is  the  '  rubente 
dextera  '  of  Hor.  Od.  I.  ii.  2. 

181  £ach  cm  his  rocJc]  '  Ilium  exspirantem    .... 
Turbine  corripuit,  scopuloque  infixit  acuto.'     JEn.  i.  44. 

186  TJnrespited]  Consult  the  notes  of  Mr.  Thyer,  and  Mr. 
Todd  on  this  line. 


BOOK   II.  45 

Thus  trampled,  thus  expell'd,  to  suffer  here        im 

Chains  and  these  torments  ?  better  these  than  worse 

By  my  advice  ;  since  fate  inevitable 

Subdues  us,  and  omnipotent  decree, 

The  victor's  will.     To  suffer,  as  to  do, 

Our  strength  is  equal,  nor  the  law  unjust  200 

That  so  ordains :  this  was  at  first  resolv'd. 

If  we  were  wise,  against  so  great  a  foe 

Contending,  and  so  doubtful  what  might  fall. 

I  laugh,  when  those,  who  at  the  spear  are  bold 

And  vent'rous,  if  that  fail  them,  shrink  and  fear     sos 

What  yet  they  know  must  follow,  to  endure 

Exile,  or  ignominy,  or  bonds,  or  pain. 

The  sentence  of  their  conqueror :  this  is  now 

Our  doom  ;  which  if  we  can  sustain  and  bear. 

Our  supreme  foe  in  time  may  much  remit  210 

His  anger,  and  perhaps  thus  far  remov'd 

Not  mind  us  not  offending,  satisfy'd 

With  what  is  punish'd :  whence  these  raging  fires 

Will  slacken,  if  his  breath  stir  not  their  flames. 

Our  purer  essence  then  will  overcome  21s 

Their  noxious  vapor,  or  enur'd  not  feel ; 

Or  chang'd  at  length,  and  to  the  place  conform'd 

In  temper  and  in  nature,  will  receive 

Familiar  the  fierce  heat,  and  void  of  pain ; 

This  horror  will  grow  mild,  this  darkness  light :  zao 

220  The  commentators  have  not  observed  that  this  and  the 
following  line  rhyme  together: 

'  This  horror  will  grow  mild,  this  darkness  light: 
Besides  what  hope  the  never-ending  flight,'  &c. 


46  PARADISE    LOST. 

Besides  what  hope  the  never-ending  flight 

Of  future  days  may  bring,  what  chance,  what  change 

Worth  waiting,  since  our  present  lot  appears 

For  happy  though  but  ill,  for  ill  not  worst, 

If  we  procure  not  to  ourselves  more  woe.  225 

Thus  Belial  with  words  cloth'd  in  reason's  garb 
Counsel'd  ignoble  ease,  and  peaceful  sloth, 
Not  peace  :  and  after  him  thus  Mammon  spake. 

Either  to  disinthrone  the  King  of  heaven 
We  war,  if  war  be  best,  or  to  regain  230 

Our  own  right  lost :  him  to  unthrone  we  then 
May  hope,  when  everlasting  Fate  shall  yield 
To  fickle  Chance,  and  Chaos  judge  the  strife  : 
The  former  vain  to  hope  argues  as  vain 
The  latter  :  for  what  place  can  be  for  us  235 

Within  heaven's  bound,  unless  heaven's  Lord  su- 
We  overpower  ?  suppose  he  should  relent  [preme 
And  publish  grace  to  all,  on  promise  made 
Of  new  subjection ;  with  what  eyes  could  we 
Stand  in  his  presence  humble,  and  receive         2« 
Strict  laws  impos'd,  to  celebrate  his  throne 
With  warbled  hymns,  and  to  his  Godhead  sing 
Forc'd  halleluiahs ;  while  he  lordly  sits 
Our  envy'd  Sov'reign,  and  his  altar  breathes 
Ambrosial  odours  and  ambrosial  flowers,  245 

Our  servile  oflTerings  ?     This  must  be  our  task 
In  heaven,  this  our  delight ;  how  wearisome 

224  for  happy]  Compare  Theognis,  ver.  519. 

"Hv  6e  TLi  elpuTo.  tov  k/iov  ^iov,  udi  ol  einuv, 
'i2f  ev  jjEV,  ,\'uAf7rwf  wf  ;i_'aAe7ra)f  Si,  uuTl'  iv. 


BOOK   II.  47 

Eternity  so  spent  in  worship  paid 

To  whom  we  hate  !     Let  us  not  then  pursue 

By  force  impossible,  by  leave  obtain'd  250 

Unacceptable,  though  in  heaven,  our  state 

Of  splendid  vassalage,  but  rather  seek 

Our  own  good  from  ourselves,  and  from  our  own 

Live  to  ourselves,  though  in  this  vast  recess, 

Free,  and  to  none  accountable,  preferring  25s 

Hard  liberty  before  the  easy  yoke 

Of  servile  pomp.     Our  greatness  will  appear 

Then  most  conspicuous,  when  great  things  of  small, 

Useful  of  hurtful,  prosperous  of  adverse. 

We  can  create ;  and  in  what  place  so  e'er  aso 

Thrive  under  evil,  and  work  ease  out  of  pain 

Through  labour  and  endurance.     This  deep  world 

Of  darkness  do  we  dread  ?  how  oft  amidst 

Thick  clouds  and  dark  doth  heaven's  all-ruling  Sire 

Choose  to  reside,  his  glory  unobscur'd,  265 

And  with  the  majesty  of  darkness  round 

Covers  his  throne  ;  from  whence  deep  thunders  roar 

Must'ring  their  rage,  and  heaven  resembles  hell  ? 

As  he  our  darkness,  cannot  we  his  light 

Imitate  when  we  please  ?  this  desert  soil  270 

Wants  not  her  hidden  lustre,  gems  and  gold ; 

Nor  want  we  skill  or  art,  from  whence  to  raise 

254  Live]  See  Hor.  Ep.  i.  xviii.  107. 

'  IJt  mihi  vivam 

Quod  superest  sevi.'     Newton. 

266  Hard  liberty]    See    ^schyli  Prom.    Vinct.    ver.    966. 
[ed.  Dindorf  ].    Todd. 


48  PARADISE   LOST. 

Masnificence ;  and  what  can  heaven  shew  more  ? 
Our  torments  also  may  in  length  of  time 
Become  our  elements,  these  piercing  fii-es  aw 

As  soft  as  now  severe,  our  temper  chang'd 
Into  their  temper ;  which  must  needs  remove 
The  sensible  of  pain.     All  things  invite 
To  peaceful  counsels,  and  the  settled  state 
Of  order,  how  in  safety  best  we  may  2» 

Compose  our  present  evils,  with  regard 
Of  what  we  are  and  where,  dismissing  quite 
All  thoughts  of  war.     Ye  have  what  I  advise. 

He  scarce  had  finish'd,  when  such  murmur  fill'd 
Th'  assembly,  as  when  hollow  rocks  retain         ass 
The  sound  of  blust'ring  winds,  which  all  night  long 
Had  roused  the  sea,  now  with  hoarse  cadence  lull 
Sea-faring  men  o'er  watch'd,  whose  bark  by  chance 
Or  pinnace  anchors  in  a  craggy  bay 
After  the  tempest :  such  applause  was  heard     aaa 
As  Mammon  ended,  and  his  sentence  pleas'd, 
Advising  peace :  for  such  another  field 
They  dreaded  worse  than  hell :  so  much  the  fear 
Of  thunder  and  the  sword  of  Michael 
"Wrought  still  within  them  ;  and  no  less  desire  ass 
To  found  this  nether  empire,  which  might  rise, 
By  poHcy  and  long  process  of  time, 

287  cadence  luU\  See  Claudiani  Rufin.  i.  70. 

'  Ceu  murmurat  alti 
Impacata  quies  pelagi,  cum  flamine  fracto 
Durat  adhuc  ssevitque  tumor,  dubiumque  per  sestnm 
Lassa  recedeutis  fluitaut  vestigia  venti.'    Newton. 


BOOK    II.  49 

In  emulation  opposite  to  heaven. 

Wliicli  when  Beelzebub  perceiv'd,  than  whom, 

Satan  except,  none  higher  sat,  with  grave  mo 

Aspect  he  rose,  and  in  his  rising  seem'd 

A  pillar  of  state  :  deep  on  his  front  engraven 

Deliberation  sat  and  public  care  ; 

And  princely  counsel  in  his  face  yet  shone, 

Majestic  though  in  ruin  :  sage  he  stood,  305 

With  Atlantean  shoulders  fit  to  bear 

The  weight  of  mightiest  monarchies  ;  his  look 

Drew  audience  and  attention  still  as  night 

Or  summer's  noon-tide  air,  while  thus  he  spake. 

Thrones  and  imperial  Powers,  offspring  of  heaven. 
Ethereal  Virtues  ;  or  these  titles  now  3u 

Must  we  renounce,  and  changing  style  be  call'd 
Princes  of  hell  ?  for  so  the  popular  vote 
Inclines,  here  to  continue,  and  build  up  here 
A  growing  empire  ;  doubtless  ;  while  we  di'eam,  sis 
And  know  not  that  the  King  of  heaven  hath  doom'd 
This  place  our  dungeon,  not  our  safe  retreat 
Beyond  his  potent  arm,  to  live  exempt 
From  heaven's  high  jurisdiction,  in  new  league 
Banded  against  his  throne,  but  to  remain  320 

In  strictest  bondage,  though  thus  far  remov'd, 
Under  th'  inevitable  curb,  reserv'd 
His  captive  multitude  :  for  he,  be  sure. 
In  highth  or  depth,  still  first  and  last  wUl  reign 

302  pillar]  Shakesp.  Hen.  VI.  Part  ii.  act  i. 

'  Brave  peers  of  England,  pillars  of  the  State.'    Newton. 

313  popular  cote]  '  Vogue.  Voice.'     Bentl.  MS.  con. 

VOL.   I.  4 


50  PARADISE    LOST. 

Sole  King,  and  of  his  kingdom  lose  no  part        32» 
By  our  revolt,  but  over  hell  extend 
His  empire,  and  with  iron  sceptre  rule 
Us  here,  as  with  his  golden  those  in  heaven. 
What  sit  we  then  projecting  peace  and  war  ? 
War  hath  determin'd  us,  and  foil'd  with  loss       aao 
Irreparable  ;  terms  of  peace  yet  none 
Vouchsaf 'd  or  sought ;  for  what  peace  will  be  giv'n 
To  us  enslav'd,  but  custody  severe, 
And  stripes,  and  arbitrary  punishment 
Inflicted  ?  and  what  peace  can  we  return,  335 

But  to  our  power  hostihty  and  hate, 
Untam'd  reluctance,  and  revenge,  though  slow, 
Yet  ever  plotting  how  the  conqueror  least 
May  reap  his  conquest,  and  may  least  rejoice 
In  doing  what  we  most  in  suffering  feel  ?  340 

Nor  wiU.  occasion  want,  nor  shall  we  need 
With  dangerous  expedition  to  invade 
Heaven,  whose  high  walls  fear  no  assault,  or  siege. 
Or  ambush  from  the  deep.     What  if  we  find 
Some  easier  enterprise  ?     There  is  a  place,        345 
If  ancient  and  px'ophetic  fame  in  heaven 
Err  not,  another  world,  the  happy  seat 
Of  some  new  race  call'd  Man,  about  this  time 
To  be  created  like  to  us,  though  less 
In  power  and  excellence,  but  favour'd  more       350 
Of  him  who  rules  above  ;  so  was  his  will 
Pronounc'd  among  the  gods,  and  by  an  oath 
That  shook  heaven's  whole  circumference,  con- 
Thither  let  us  bend  all  our  thoughts,  to  learn  [firm'd. 


BOOK   11.  51 

What  creatures  there  inhabit,  of  what  mould,    35s 
Or  substance,  how  endu'd,  and  what  their  power, 
And  where  their  weakness,  how  attempted  best, 
By  force  or  subtihy.     Though  heaven  be  shut. 
And  heaven's  high  Arbitrator  sit  secure 
In  his  own  strength,  this  place  may  Ue  expos'd,  sej 
The  utmost  border  of  his  kingdom,  left 
To  their  defence  who  hold  it :  here  perhaps 
Some  advantageous  act  may  be  achiev'd 
By  sudden  onset,  either  with  hell  fire 
To  waste  his  whole  creation,  or  possess  ses 

All  as  our  own,  and  drive  as  we  were  driven 
The  puny  habitants  ;  or  if  not  drive, 
Seduce  them  to  our  pai'ty,  that  their  God 
May  prove  their  foe,  and  with  repenting  hand 
Abohsh  his  own  woi'ks.     This  would  surpass     270 
Common  revenge,  and  interrupt  his  joy 
In  our  confusion,  and  our  joy  upraise 
In  his  disturbance  ;  when  his  darling  sons, 
Hurl'd  headlong  to  partake  with  us,  shall  curse 
Their  frail  original,  and  faded  bhss,  373 

Faded  so  soon.     Advise  if  this  be  worth 
Attempting,  or  to  sit  in  darkness  here 
Hatching  vain  empii'es. — Thus  Beelzebub 
Pleaded  his  deviUsh  counsel,  first  devis'd 
By  Satan,  and  in  part  propos'd  ;  for  whence,      3^ 
But  from  the  author  of  all  ill,  could  spring 
So  deep  a  mahce,  to  confound  the  race 
Of  mankind  in  one  root,  and  earth  with  hell 
360  eospos'd]  Compare  ver.  410,  and  consult  Newton's  note. 


52  PABADISE   LOST. 

To  mingle  and  involve,  done  all  to  spite 

The  great  Creator  ?  but  their  spite  still  serves  ase 

His  glory  to  augment.     The  bold  design 

Pleas'd  highly  those  infernal  states,  and  joy 

Sparkl'd  in  all  their  eyes  ;  with  full  assent 

They  vote  :  whereat  his  speech  he  thus  renews. 

Well  have  ye  judg'd,  well  ended  long  debate, 

Synod  of  gods,  and,  like  to  what  ye  are,  391 

Great  things  resolv'd ;  which  from  the  lowest  deep 

Will  once  more  lift  us  up,  in  spite  of  fate, 

Nearer  our  ancient  seat ;  perhaps  in  view    [arms 

Of  those  bright  confines,  whence  with  neighbouring 

And  opportune  excursion  we  may  chance  3«6 

Re-enter  heaven  :  or  else  in  some  mild  zone 

Dwell,  not  unvisited  of  heaven's  fair  light. 

Secure,  and  at  the  brightning  orient  beam 

Purge  off  this  gloom  ;  the  soft  delicious  air       400 

To  heal  the  scar  of  these  corrosive  fires       [send 

Shall  breathe  her  balm.     But  first  whom  shall  we 

In  search  of  this  new  world  ?  whom  shall  we  find 

Sufficient  ?  who  shall  tempt  with  wand'ring  feet 

The  dark  unbottom'd  infinite  abyss,  4os 

And  through  the  palpable  obscure  find  out 

His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  aery  flight, 

Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings. 

Over  the  vast  abrupt,  ere  he  arrive 

406  palpable]  The  adjective  '  obscure '  used  for  a  substan- 
tive, as  409,  '  the  vast  abrupt.'     Newton. 
409  arrive]  Shakesp.  Hen.  VI.  Part  iii.  act  v. 

'  those  powers  that  the  queen 

Hath  rais'd  in  Gallia,  have  arrived  our  coast.'' 


BOOK  II.  53 

The  happy  isle  ?  what  strength,  what  art  can  then 
Suffice,  or  what  evasion  bear  him  safe  «o 

Throush  the  strict  senteries  and  stations  thick 
Of  angels  watching  round  ?  here  he  had  need 
All  circumspection,  and  we  now  no  less 
Choice  in  our  suffrage ;  for  on  whom  we  send     4i5 
The  weight  of  all,  and  our  last  hope,  relies. 

This  said,  he  sat ;  and  expectation  held 
His  look  suspense,  awaiting  who  appear'd 
To  second,  or  oppose,  or  undertake 
The  perilous  attempt :  but  all  sat  mute,  «o 

Pondering  the  danger  with  deep  thoughts ;  and  each 
In  others'  count'nance  read  his  own  dismay 
Astonish'd ;  none  among  the  choice  and  prime 
Of  those  heaven- wanting  champions  could  be  found 
So  hardy,  as  to  proffer  or  accept  425 

Alone  the  dreadful  voyage ;  till  at  last 
Satan,  whom  now  transcendent  glory  rais'd 
Above  his  fellows,  with  monarchal  pride. 
Conscious  of  highest  worth,  unmov'd  thus  spake. 

O  Progeny  of  heaven,  empyreal  Thrones,      430 
With  reason  hath  deep  silence  and  demur 
Seiz'd  us,  though  undismay'd :  long  is  the  way 
And  hard,  that  out  of  hell  leads  up  to  light ; 

410  isle]  The  earth  hanging  in  the  sea  of  air.     Cic.  de  Nat. 
Deor.  ii.  66. 

'Magnam  quandam  insulam,  quam  nos  orbem  ierrce  vo- 
camus.'    Newton. 

432  Umc/]  Dante  Inf.  c.  xxxiv.  95,  describes  the  ascent  from 
heU. 

'  La  via  e  hinga,  e  '1  cammino  h  malvagio.' 


54  PARADISE    LOST. 

Our  prison  strong ;  this  huge  convex  of  fire, 

Outrageous  to  devour,  immures  us  round  os 

Ninefold,  and  gates  of  burning  adamant 

Barr'd  over  us  prohibit  all  egress. 

These  pass'd,  if  any  pass,  the  void  profound 

Of  unessential  night  receives  him  next 

Wide  gaping,  and  with  utter  loss  of  being  no 

Threatens  him,  plung'd  in  that  abortive  gulf. 

If  thence  he  scape  into  whatever  world. 

Or  unknown  region,  what  remains  him  less 

Than  unknown  dangers  and  as  hard  escape  ? 

But  I  should  ill  become  this  throne,  O  Peers,    «5 

And  this  imperial  sov'reignty,  adorn'd 

With  splendour,  arm'd  with  power,  if  aught  propos'd 

And  judg'd  of  public  moment,  in  the  shape 

Of  difficulty  or  danger,  could  deter 

Me  from  attempting.    Wherefore  do  I  assume  •'m 

These  royalties,  and  not  refuse  to  reign. 

Refusing  to  accept  as  great  a  share 

Of  hazard  as  of  honour,  due  alike 

To  him  who  reigns,  and  so  much  to  him  due 

Of  hazard  more,  as  he  above  the  rest  4S5 

High  honour'd  sits  ?  Go,  therefore,  mighty  Powers, 

Terror  of  heaven,  though  fall'n,  intend  at  home. 

While  here  shall  be  our  home,  what  best  may  ease 

The  present  misery,  and  render  hell 

436  Ninefold]  '  Et  novies  Styx  interfusa  coercet.'  ^En.  vi. 
439.     Newton. 

457  iniend]  '  Intende  animum.'  See  Steevens'  note  on 
Shakesp.  Timon  of  Athens,  act  ii.  scene  ii. 


BOOK    11.  55 

More  tolerable  ;  if  there  be  cure  or  charm        ioa 
To  respite,  or  deceive,  or  slack  the  pain 
Of  this  ill  mansion.     Intermit  no  watch 
Against  a  wakeful  foe,  while  I  abroad 
Through  all  the  coasts  of  dark  destruction  seek 
Deliverance  for  us  all  :  this  enterprise  «5 

None  shall  partake  with  me.     Thus  saying  rose 
The  monarch,  and  prevented  all  reply ; 
Prudent,  lest  from  his  resolution  rais'd 
Others  among  the  chief  might  offer  now, 
Certain  to  be  refus'd,  what  erst  they  fear'd ;       «o 
And  so  refus'd  might  in  opinion  stand 
His  rivals,  winning  cheap  the  high  I'epute,  / 

Which  he  through  hazard  huge  must  earn.     But 

they 
Dreaded  not  more  th'  adventure,  than  his  voice 
Forbidding  ;  and  at  once  with  him  they  rose :    473 
Their  rising  all  at  once  was  as  the  sound 
Of  thunder  heard  remote.    Towards  him  they  bend 
With  awful  reverence  prone ;  and  as  a  god 
Extol  him  equal  to  the  highest  in  heaven  : 
Nor  fail'd  they  to  express  how  much  they  prais'd,  *so 
That  for  the  general  safety  he  despis'd 
His  own  ;  for  neither  do  the  spirits  damn'd 
Lose  all  their  virtue,  lest  bad  men  should  boast 
Their  specious  deeds  on  earth,  which  glory  excites, 
Or  close  ambition  varnish'd  o'er  with  zeal.  435 

Thus  they  their  doubtful  consultations  dark 
Ended,  rejoicing  in  their  matchless  chief: 
As  when  from  mountain  tops  the  dusky  clouds 


56  PARADISE   LOST. 

Ascending,  while  the  north  wind  sleeps,  o'erspread 
Heaven's  cheerful  face,  the  low'ring  element      49f» 
Scowls  o'er  the  darken'd  landscape  snow,  or  show'r ; 
If  chance  the  radiant  sun  with  farewell  sweet 
Extend  his  ev'ning  beam,  the  fields  revive, 
The  birds  their  notes  renew,  and  bleating  herds 
Attest  their  joy,  that  hill  and  valley  rings.         495 
O  shame  to  men !  devil  with  devil  damn'd 
Firm  concord  holds,  men  only  disagree 
Of  creatures  rational,  though  under  hope 
Of  heavenly  grace  ;  and  God  proclaiming  peace, 
Yet  live  in  hatred,  enmity,  and  strife  soo 

Among  themselves,  and  levy  cruel  wars. 
Wasting  the  earth,  each  other  to  destroy  : 
As  if,  which  might  induce  us  to  accord, 
Man  had  not  hellish  foes  enow  besides. 
That  day  and  night  for  his  destruction  wait.       sos 
The  Stygian  council  thus  dissolv'd  ;  and  forth 
In  order  came  the  grand  infernal  peers  ; 
Midst  came  their  mighty  paramount,  and  seem'd 
Alone  th'  antagonist  of  heaven,  nor  less 
Than  hell's  dread  emperor,  with  pomp  supreme  sio 
And  God-like  imitated  state  :  him  round 
A  globe  of  fiery  seraphim  inclos'd 

489  sleeps]  Horn.  II.  v.  524. 

o(pp'  Evdijai  fiivoc  Bopsao.    Newton. 

490  cheerful]  Spens.  F.  Q.  ii.  xii.  34. 

'  And  heaven's  cheerful  face  enveloped.     Thyer. 

5'2  globe]  Vii-g.  Mn.  x.  373. 

Qua  globus  ille  virfim  densissimus  urget.    Newton. 


BOOK   II. 


57 


"With  bright  imblazonry  and  horrent  arms. 
Then  of  their  session  ended  they  bid  cry 
With  trumpets  regal  sound  the  great  result :      sis 
Toward  the  four  winds  four  speedy  cherubim 
Put  to  their  mouths  the  sounding  alchymy, 
By  heralds  voice  explain'd :  the  hollow  abyss 
Heard  far  and  wide,  and  all  the  host  of  hell 
With  deaf'ning  shout  return'd  them  loud  acclaim. 
Thence  more  at  ease  their  minds,  and  somewhat 
rais'd  521 

By  false  presumptuous  hope,  the  ranged  powers 
Disband,  and  wand'ring  each  his  several  way 
Pursues,  as  inclination  or  sad  choice 
Leads  him  perplex'd,  where  he  may  likeliest  find  szs 
Truce  to  his  restless  thoughts,  and  entertain 
The  irksome  hours,  till  his  great  chief  return. 
Part,  on  the  plain  or  in  the  air  sublime, 
Upon  the  wing  or  in  swift  race  contend, 
As  at  the  Olympian  games,  or  Pythian  fields :    sw 
Part  curb  their  fiery  steeds,  or  shun  the  goal 
With  rapid  wheels,  or  fronted  brigades  form. 

613  horrent]   Virg.  ^n.  i.   '  Horrentia  Martis   arma,'    and 
Mn.  X.  178.  '  Horrentibus  hastis.' 

628  Part,  on  the  plain]  Compare  Ovid.  Metam.  iv.  445,  and 
Fasti,  vi.  327. 

'  Hi  temere  errabant  in  opacse  valiibus  Idte : 

Pars  jacet  et  molli  gramine  membra  levat. 
Hi  ludunt,  bos  somnus  habet ;  pars  brachia  nectit, 
Et  viridem  celeri  ter  pede  pulsat  famnum.' 

631  curb]  '  How  got  they  steeds  and  harps  V  '  v.  548. 

Bentl.  MS. 

632  rapid]  '  rapid  even  before  the  race.'    Bentl.  MS. 


58  PARADISE   LOST. 

As  when  to  warn  proud  cities  war  appears 
Wag'd  in  the  troubled  sky,  and  armies  rush 
To  battle  in  the  clouds,  before  each  van  535 

Prick  forth  the  aery  knights,  and  couch  their  spears 
Till  thickest  legions  close  ;  with  feats  of  arms 
From  either  end  of  heaven  the  welkin  burns. 
Others  with  vast  Typhoean  rage  more  fell 
Rend  up  both  rocks  and  hills,  and  ride  the  air    540 
In  whirlwind :  hell  scarce  holds  the  wild  uproar. 
As  when  Alcides  from  CEchalia  crown'd 
With  conquest  felt  th'  envenom'd  robe,  and  tore 
Through  pain  up  by  the  roots  ThessaUan  pines. 
And  Lichas  from  the  top  of  OEta  threw  54s 

Into  th'  Euboic  sea.     Others  more  mild, 
Retreated  in  a  silent  valley,  sing 
With  notes  angelical  to  many  a  harp 
Their  own  heroic  deeds  and  hapless  fall 
By  doom  of  battle ;  and  complain  that  fate         sso 
Free  virtue  should  inthral  to  force  or  chance. 
Their  song  was  partial ;  but  the  harmony, 
What  could  it  less  when  spirits  immortal  sing  ? 
Suspended  hell,  and  took  with  ravishment 
The  thronging  audience.  In  discourse  more  sweet, 
For  eloquence  the  soul,  song  charms  the  sense, 
Others  apart  sat  on  a  hill  retir'd,  set 

In  thoughts  more  elevate,  and  reason'd  high 

66T  oOiers  apart]  Compare  Horat.  Od.  ii.  13.  23. 

'  Sedesque  discretas  piorum.' 
668  elevate]  Compare  Ovidii  Metam.  xii.  157. 

'  Noa  illos  Citharse,  non  illos  carmina  vociun, 


BOOK   II.  59 

Of  providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  and  fate, 
Fix'd  fate,  free  will,  foreknowledge  absolute  ;     ^eo 
And  found  no  end,  in  wand'ring  mazes  lost. 
Of  good  and  evil  much  they  argued  then, 
Of  happiness  and  final  misery, 
Passion  and  apathy,  and  glory  and  shame, 
Vain  wisdom  all,  and  false  philosophy ;  ses 

Yet  with  a  pleasing  sorcery  could  charm 
Pain  for  a  while  or  anguish,  and  excite 
Fallacious  hope,  or  arm  th'  obdured  breast 
With  stubborn  patience  as  with  triple  steel. 
Another  part  in  squadrons  and  gross  bands,       570 
On  bold  adventure  to  discover  wide 
That  dismal  world,  if  any  clime  perhaps, 
IMight  yield  them  easier  habitation,  bend 
Four  ways  their  flying  march,  along  the  banks 
Of  four  infernal  rivers,  that  disgorge  575 

Into  the  burning  lake  their  baleful  streams  ; 
Abhorred  Styx,  the  flood  of  deadly  hate  ; 
Sad  Acheron  of  sorrow,  black  and  deep  ; 
Cocytus,  nam'd  of  lamentation  loud 
Heard  on  the  rueful  stream  ;  fierce  Phlegeton,  san 

Longave  multifori  delectat  tibia  buxi : 
Sed  noctem  sermone  trahunt;  virtvsque  loquendj 
Materia  est.' 
566  pleasing  sorcery]  See  Marino's  SI.  of  the  Innocents,  I, 
4,  8.  (1675). 

'  And  with  a  pleasing  tyranny  had  there 
Shed  his  Lethean  water  on  their  sight.' 
5«9  triple]  Hor.  Od.  i.  iii.  9. 

'  nii  robur,  et  ces  triplex 
Circa  pectus  erat.  Hume. 


fiO  PARADISE    LOST. 

Whose  waves  of  torrent  fire  inflame  with  rage. 

Far  off  from  these  a  slow  and  silent  stream, 

Lethe  the  river  of  oblivion,  rolls 

Her  wat'ry  labyrinth,  whereof  who  drinks, 

Forthwith  his  former  state  and  being  forgets,     sas 

Forgets  both  joy  and  grief,  pleasure,  and  pain. 

Beyond  this  flood  a  frozen  continent 

Lies,  dark  and  wild,  beat  with  perpetual  storms 

Of  whirlwind  and  dire  hail ;  which  on  firm  land 

Thaws  not,  but  gathers  heap,  and  ruin  seems     sm 

Of  ancient  pile  ;  all  else  deep  snow  and  ice ; 

A  gulf  profound  as  that  Serbonian  bog 

Betwixt  Damiata  and  mount  Casius  old, 

Where  armies  whole  have  sunk  :  the  parching  air 

Burns  frore,  and  cold  performs  th'  effect  of  fire,  sss 

Thither  by  harpy-footed  Furies  hal'd 

At  certain  revolutions  all  the  damn'd 

Are  brought ;  and  feel  by  turns  the  bitter  change 

Of  fierce  extremes,  extremes  by  change  more  fierce, 

From  beds  of  raging  fire  to  starve  in  ice  soo 

Their  soft  ethereal  warmth,  and  there  to  pine 

Immovable,  infix'd,  and  frozen  round. 

Periods  of  time  ;  thence  hurried  back  to  fire. 

They  ferry  over  this  Lethean  sound 

Both  to  and  fro,  their  sorrow  to  augment,  bob 

And  wish  and  struggle,  as  they  pass  to  reach 

The  tempting  stream,  with  one  small  drop  to  lose 

589  dire  }iail\  Hor.  Od.  i.  ii.  1.  '  dirse  grandinis.'  Newton. 
595  Burrn]  Virg.  Georg.  i.  93.  '  Boreag  penetrabile  friyvs 
aduraV     NewUm. 


BOOK    II.  61 

In  sweet  forgetfulness  all  pain  and  woe, 

All  in  one-  moment,  and  so  near  the  brink  : 

But  fate  withstands,  and  to  oppose  th'  attempt  eiu 

]SIedusa  with  Gorgonian  terror  guards 

The  ford,  and  of  itself  the  water  flies 

All  taste  of  living  wight,  as  once  it  fled 

The  lip  of  Tantalus.     Thus  roving  on 

In  confus'd  march  foi'lorn,  th'  advent'rous  bands, 

With  shudd'ring  horror  pale,  and  eyes  aghast, 

View'd  first  their  lamentable  lot,  and  found 

No  rest :  through  many  a  dark  and  dreary  vale 

They  pass'd,  and  many  a  region  dolorous,  eis 

O'er  many  a  frozen,  many  a  fiery  Alp,       [death, 

Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  fens,  bogs,  dens,  and  shades  of 

A  universe  of  death,  which  God  by  curse 

Created  evil,  for  evil  only  good. 

Where  all  Ufe  dies,  death  lives,  and  nature  breeds, 

Perverse,  all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things,    «s 

Abominable,  unutterable,  and  worse 

620  AJp]  in  the  singular  number;  so  in  Dionysius  Perieg. 
See  Schnieder's  note  to  Orphei  Ai-gon.  p.  193.  'AAmo( 
apxVi  singular!  numero,  est  in  Dion.  Perieg.  ut  in  Metrodori 
Epigr.  (Anal.  ii.  481.)  Alpem  Juvenalis  nominat.  (Sat.  x. 
152.) 

621  Roclcs] 

'  Eocks,  shelves,  gulfs,  quicksands,  hundred,  hundred  horrors.' 
See  Middkioiis  World  tost  at  Tennis,  p.  26. 
623  e,vil\  ^sch.  Eumen.  ver.  71. 

KUKuv  S'EK.aTt,  Kayerovt. 

625  aU  numstrous]  See  Hej-wood's  Hierarchie,  p.  437,  lib.  7. 
'  So  that  all  births  which  out  of  order  come 
Are  monstrous  and  prodigious.'' 


62  PARADISE    LOST. 

Than  fables  yet  have  feign'd,  or  fear  conceiv'd, 
Gorgons,  and  Hydras,  and  Chimasras  dire. 

Meanwhile  the  adversary  of  God  and  man, 
Satan,  with  thoughts  inflam'd  of  highest  design,  63o 
Puts  on  swift  wings,  and  toward  the  gates  of  hell 
Explores  his  solitary  flight ;  sometimes 
He  scours  the  right-hand  coast,  sometimes  the  left ; 
Now  shaves  with  level  wing  the  deep,  then  soars 
Up  to  the  fiery  concave  towering  high.  eas 

As  when  far  off  at  sea  a  fleet  descried 
Hangs  in  the  clouds,  by  equinoctial  winds 
Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  isles 
Of  Ternate  and  Tidore,  whence  merchants  bring 
Their  spicy  drugs  :  they  on  the  trading  flood      «o 
Through  the  wide  -Ethiopian  to  the  Cape 
Ply,  stemming  nightly  toward  the  pole ;  so  seem'd 
Far  off  the  flying  fiend.     At  last  appear 
Hell  bounds,  high  reaching  to  the  horrid  roof; 
And  thrice  threefold  the  gates  ;  three  folds  were 
Three  iron,  three  of  adamantine  rock,         [brass, 
Impenetrable,  impal'd  with  circling  fire,  647 

Yet  unconsum'd.     Before  the  gates  there  sat 

639  Of  Ternate]  See  Fanshawe's  Lusiad,  p.  219,  c.  x.  84. 
132.  (1655). 
*  Tidore  see !  Ternate !  whence  are  rolled 

(Holding  black  night  a  torch)  thick  plumes  of  flame.' 
MO  trading]  treading.     Bentl.  MS. 
642  nightly]  rightly.     Bentl.  MS. 
645  thrice  threefold]  Samson  Agon.  ver.  1122. 
'And  seven  times  folded  shield.' 
Clypei  septemplicis.'    Bentl.  MS. 


BOOK  n.  63 

On  either  side  a  formidable  shape  ; 
The  one  seem'd  woman  to  the  waist,  and  fair,    sso 
But  ended  foul  in  many  a  scaly  fold, 
Voluminous  and  vast,  a  serpent  arm'd 
With  mortal  sting  :  about  her  middle  round 
A  cry  of  hell-hounds  never  ceasing  bark'd 
With  wide  Cerberean  mouths  full  loud,  and  runs  ew 
A  hideous  peal :  yet,  when  they  list,  would  creep, 
If  aught  disturb'd  their  noise,  into  her  womb, 
And  kennel  there ;  yet  there  still  bark'd  and  howl'd 
Within  unseen.     Far  less  abhorr'd  than  these 
Vex'd  Scylla  bathing  in  the  sea  that  parts  sgo 

Calabria  from  the  hoarse  Trinacrian  shore  : 
Nor  uglier  follow  the  Night-hag,  when  call'd 
In  secret,  riding  through  the  air  she  comes, 
Lur'd  with  the  smell  of  infant  blood,  to  dance 
With  Lapland  witches,  while  the  labouring  moon  ess 
Eclipses  at  their  charms.     The  other  shape. 
If  shape  it  might  be  call'd,  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb, 
Or  substance  might  be  call'd  that  shadow  seem'd, 

653  mortal  sting]  Spens.  F.  Q.  i.  i.  15. 

'  pointed  with  mortal  sting.'     Bentl.  MS. 
854  A  cry]  'And  that  some  troop  of  cruel  hellish  curs 
Encircle  them  about.' 

V.  PhiUis  of  Scyi-os.  p.  104.  (1655). 
680  Vex'd]  '  Dulichias  vexasse  rates.'     Virg.  Eel.  vi.  76. 
665  labouring  moon]    See  Ovid.  ]iletam.  iv.  333.  aud  Stat. 
Theb.  ver.  687.     '  Siderum  labores.'    v.  Plin.  N.  Hist.  lib.  il. 
c.  X.  p.  162,  ed.   Brotier.     Casimir  Sarb.   Lyr.  ii.  v.    '  Soli 
et  lanae  labores.' 


64  PAKADISE    LOST. 

For  each  seem'd  either ;  black  it  stood  as  night,  sro 

Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  hell, 

And  shook  a  dreadful  dart ;  what  seem'd  his  head 

The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 

Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat 

The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast,  ers 

"With  horrid  strides  ;  hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 

Th'  undaunted  fiend  what  this  might  be  admir'd ; 

Admir'd,  not  fear'd  ;  God  and  his  Son  except, 

Created  thing  naught  valued  he,  nor  shunn'd ; 

And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began.  m 

Wlience  and  what  art  thou,  execrable  shape, 
,  That  dar'st,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 
Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 
To  yonder  gates  ?  through  them  I  mean  to  pass, 
That  be  assur'd  without  leave  ask'd  of  thee.       sas 
Retire,  or  taste  thy  folly,  and  learn  by  proof. 
Hell-born,  not  to  contend  with  spirits  of  heaven. 

To  whom  the  goblin  full  of  wrath  replied, 
Art  thou  that  traitor-angel,  art  thou  he, 

672  And  shook] 

'  His  dart  anon  out  of  the  corpse  he  took, 
And  in  his  hand,  a  dreadful  sight  to  see, 
With  great  triumph  eftsones  the  same  he  shook.' 

See  SackmUe's  Int.  to  Mirror  for  Mag.  p.  266,  ed.  1610. 

B^e  hell]  'And  made  hell  gates  to  shiver  with  the  might.' 

Sachville^s  Introd.  p.  265. 

679  Created]  See  Wakefield's  Lucretius,  lib.  i.  117,  and 
Sylva  Critica,  v.  p.  74,  where  this  phrase  is  illustrated. 

683  miscreated]  Spens.  F.  Q.  i.  ii.  3.  '  miscreated  fair.'  ii 
vii.  42.  '  miscreated  mould.'    Bentl. 


BOOK   II.  G5 

Wlao  first  broke  peace  in  heaven  and  faith,  till  then 
Unbroken,  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms  89i 

Drew  after  him  the  third  part  of  heaven's  sons 
Conjur'd  against  the  Highest ;  for  which  both  thou 
And  they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  condemn'd 
To  waste  eternal  days  in  woe  and  pain  ?  ess 

And  reckon'st  thou  thyself  with  spirits  of  heaven, 
Hell-doom'd,  and  breath'st  defiance  here  and  scorn, 
Where  I  reign  king,  and,  to  enrage  thee  more, 
Thy  king  and  lord  ?     Back  to  thy  punishment, 
False  fugitive,  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings,        700 
Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 
Thy  ling'ring,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart 
Strange  horror  seize  thee,  and  pangs  unfelt  before 

So  spake  the  grisly  Terror,  and  in  shape. 
So  speaking  and  so  threatening,  grew  tenfold      705 
More  dreadful  and  deform  :  on  th'  other  side 
Incens'd  with  indignation  Satan  stood 
Unterrify'd,  and  like  a  comet  burn'd. 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiucus  huge 
In  th'  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair  tw 

692  J)rew]  '  He  boldly  drew  millions  of  souls.' 

See  BeaumonVs  Psyche,  c.  xv.  st.  296. 

693  Omjur'd]  Virg.  Geo.  i.  280. 

'  Et  conjuratos  coelum  rescindere  fratres.'    Hume. 
708  comet  ]  See  Virg.  Mu.  x.  272.    Tasso,G.  L.  c.  vii.  52. 

Nev^ton. 
700  Ophiucus]  See  Sir  F.  Bacon's  Astronomy.    'And  such 
comets  have  more  than  once  appeared  in  our  time ;  first  in 
Cassiopeia,  and  again  in  Ophiuchus.'' 
710  horrid  hair]  See  Plin.  N.  Hist.  lib.  ii.  c.  22.      "  Co. 
VOL.   I.  5 


66  PARADISE    LOST. 

Shakes  pestilence  and  war.     Each  at  the  head 
Level'd  his  deadly  aim  ;  their  fatal  hands 
No  second  stroke  intend,  and  such  a  frown 
Each  cast  at  th'  other,  as  when  two  black  clouds, 
With  heaven's  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling  on  715 
Over  the  Caspian  ;  then  stand  front  to  front 
Hov'ring  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid  air : 
.  So  frown'd  the  mighty  combatants,  that  hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown,  so  match'd  they  stood ; 
For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a  foe :  and  now  great  deeds 
Had  been  achiev'd,  whereof  all  hell  had  rung. 
Had  not  the  snaky  sorceress  that  sat 
Fast  by  hell-gate,  and  kept  the  fatal  key,  725 

Ris'n,  and  with  hideous  outcry  rush'd  between. 

O  father,  what  intends  thy  hand,  she  cry'd, 
Against  thy  only  son  ?     What  fury,  O  son, 

metas  hon-entes  crine   sanguineo.'    See   Nonni  Dionys.  xvii. 
6.  Sylvester's  Du  Bartas,  p.  14. 

'  Then  with  long  bloody  hair,  a  blazing  star 
Threatens  the  world  with  famine,  plague,  and  war, 
To  princes  death,  to  kingdoms  many  crosses.' 

711  Shakes]  Mr.  Dyce  refers  to  Lucan.  Phars.  vi.  468. 

'  Humentes  late  nebulas,  nimbosque  solutis 
Excussere  comis.' 

714  two  black  clouds]  Boiardo's    Orlando  Innamorato,  b.    i. 
c.  16.  St.  10.     Thyer. 
716  artillery]  See  Gayton's  Charts  Scriptse,  p.  20 ;  (1645) 

'  The  magazine  of  heaven  here.    Artfllerie 
Which  oft  in  dreadful  thmiderings  rend  the  skie.' 


BOOK   II.  67 

Possesses  thee  to  bend  that  mortal  dart 
Against  thy  father's  head  ?  and  know'st  for  whom  ; 
For  him  who  sits  above,  and  laughs  the  while 
At  thee  ordain'd  his  drudge,  to  execute 
Whate'er  his  wrath,  which  he  calls  justice,  bids ; 
His  wrath,  which  one  day  will  destroy  ye  both. 

She  spake,  and  at  her  words  the  hellish  pest  733 
Forbore ;  then  these  to  her  Satan  return'd  : 

So  strange  thy  outcry,  and  thy  words  so  strange 
Thou  interposest,  that  my  sudden  hand 
Prevented  spares  to  tell  thee  yet  by  deeds 
"What  it  intends ;  till  first  I  know  of  thee,  740 

What  thing  thou  art,  thus  double-form'd,  and  why, 
In  this  infernal  vale  first  met,  thou  call'st 
Me  father,  and  that  phantasm  call'st  my  son : 
I  know  thee  not,  nor  ever  saw  tiU  now 
Sight  more  detestable  than  him  and  thee.  745 

T'  whom  thus  the  portress  of  hell-gate  repl/d. 
Hast  thou  forgot  me  then,  and  do  I  seem 
Now  in  thine  eye  so  foul,  once  deem'd  so  fair 
In  heaven  ?  when  at  th'  assembly,  and  in  sight 
Of  all  the  seraphim  with  thee  combin'd  7so 

In  bold  conspiracy  against  heaven's  King, 
All  on  a  sudden  miserable  pain 
Surpriz'd  thee,  dim  thine  eyes,  and  dizzy  swum 
In  darkness,  while  thy  head  flames  thick  and  fast 
Threw  forth,  till  on  the  left  side  op'ning  wide,  755 

746  the  portress]  P.  Fletcher's  Locusts,  ed.  1627,  p.  34. 
'  The  Porter  to  th'  infernall  gate  is  Sin:     Todd. 


68  PARADISE    LOST. 

Likest  to  thee  in  shape  and  count'nance  bright, 
Then  shining  heav'nly  fair,  a  goddess  arm'd, 
Out  of  thy  head  I  sprung  :  amazement  seiz'd 
All  th'  host  of  heaven ;  back  they  recoU'd  afraid 
At  first,  and  call'd  me  Sin,  and  for  a  sign  76o 

Portentous  held  me  :  but  familiar  grown, 
I  pleas'd,  and  with  attractive  graces  won 
The  most  averse,  thee  chiefly,  who  fuU  oft 
Thyself  in  me  thy  perfect  image  viewing 
Becam'st  enamour'd,  and  such  joy  thou  took'st    7ss 
With  me  in  secret,  that  my  womb  conceiv'd 
A  growing  burthen.     Mean  while  war  arose, 
And  fields  were  fought  in  heaven ;  wherein  remain'd 
For  what  could  else  ?  to  our  almighty  foe 
Clear  victory,  to  our  part  loss  and  rout  tto 

Through  aU  the  empyrean :  down  they  fell 
Driv'n  headlong  from  the  pitch  of  heaven,  down 
Into  this  deep,  and  in  the  general  fall 
I  also :  at  which  time  this  powerful  key 
Into  my  hand  was  giv'n,  with  charge  to  keep     775 
These  gates  for  ever  shut,  which  none  can  pass 
Without  my  op'ning.     Pensive  here  I  sat 
Alone,  but  long  I  sat  not,  till  my  womb, 
Pregnant  by  thee  and  now  excessive  grown, 
Prodigious  motion  felt  and  rueful  throes.  tso 

At  last  this  odious  offspring  whom  thou  seest, 
Thine  own  begotten,  breaking  violent  way. 
Tore  through  my  entrails,  that  with  fear  and  pain 
Distorted,  all  my  nether  shape  thus  grew 
Transform'd :  but  he  my  inbred  enemy  tbs 


BOOK   II.  69 

Forth  issu'd,  brandishing  his  fatal  dart 

Made  to  destroy  :  I  fled,  and  cry'd  out  Death  ; 

Hell  trembled  at  the  hideous  name,  and  sigh'd 

From  all  her  caves,  and  back  resounded  Death. 

I  fled,  but  he  pursu'd,  though  more,  it  seems,     790 

Inflam'd  with  lust  than  rage,  and  swifter  far. 

Me  overtook  his  mother  all  dismay'd, 

And,  in  embraces  forcible  and  foul 

Ingend'ring  with  me,  of  that  rape  begot 

These  yelling  monsters  that  with  ceaseless  cry  tss 

Surround  me,  as  thou  saw'st,  hourly  conceiv'd 

And  hourly  bom,  with  soi'row  infinite 

To  me  ;  for  when  they  list,  into  the  womb 

That  bred  them  they  return,  and  howl,  and  gnaw 

My  bowels,  their  repast ;  then  bursting  forth     soo 

Afresh  with  conscious  terrors  vex  me  round, 

That  rest  or  intermission  none  I  find. 

Before  mine  eyes  in  opposition  sits 

Grim  Death  my  son  and  foe,  who  sets  them  on. 

And  me  his  parent  would  full  soon  devour         805 

For  want  of  other  prey,  but  that  he  knows 

His  end  with  mine  involv'd  ;  and  knows  that  I 

Should  prove  a  bitter  morsel,  and  his  bane, 

Whenever  that  shall  be  ;  so  Fate  pronounc'd. 

But  thou,  O  father,  I  forewarn  thee,  shun  sio 

His  deadly  arrow ;  neither  vainly  hope 

To  be  invuhierable  in  those  bright  arms, 

■^87  Made  to  destroy\  See  James  i.  15.     Benll.  MS. 
™4  rape  begot]  See  Amadis  de  Gaiil,  vol.  iii.   lib.  iii.  c.  10. 
p.  183,  ed.  Southey. 


70  PARADISE   LOST. 

Thougli  temper'd  heavenly  ;  for  that  mortal  dint 
Save  he  who  reigns  above,  none  can  resist. 

She  finish'd,  and  the  subtle  fiend  his  lore  sis 
Soon  learn'd,  now  milder,  and  thus  answer'd  smooth. 
Dear  daughter,  since  thou  claim'st  me  for  thy  sire, 
And  my  fair  son  here  show'st  me,  the  dear  pledge 
Of  dalliance  had  with  thee  in  heaven,  and  joys 
Then  sweet,  now  sad  to  mention,  through  dire 

change  820 

Befall'n  us,  unforeseen,  unthought  of,  know 
I  come  no  enemy,  but  to  set  free 
From  out  this  dark  and  dismal  house  of  pain, 
Both  him  and  thee,  and  all  the  heav'nly  host 
Of  spirits  that,  in  our  just  pretenses  arm'd,         azs 
Fell  with  us  from  on  high :  from  them  I  go 
This  uncouth  errand  sole,  and  one  for  all 
Myself  expose,  with  lonely  steps  to  tread 
Th'  unfounded  deep,  and  through  the  void  immense 
To  search  with  wandering  quest  a  place  foretold  sso 
Should  be,  and,  by  concurring  signs,  ere  now 
Created,  vast  and  round,  a  place  of  bliss 
In  the  purlieus  of  heaven,  and  therein  plac'd 
A  race  of  upstart  creatures,  to  supply 
Perhaps  our  vacant  room,  though  more  remov'd, 
Lest  heaven  surcharg'd  with  potent  multitude 
Might  hap  to  move  new  broils.    Be  this,  or  aught 
Than  this  more  secret,  now  design'd,  I  haste 
To  know,  and,  this  once  known,  shall  soon  return, 
And  bring  ye  to  the  place  where  thou  and  Death 
Shall  dwell  at  ease,  and  up  and  down  unseen     84i 


BOOK   II.  71 

Wing  silently  the  buxom  aii*,  imbalm'd  84a 

With  odours  ;  there  ye  shall  be  fed  and  fill'd 
Immeasurably,  all  things  shall  be  your  prey. 

He  ceas'd,  for  both  seem'd  highly  pleas'd,  and 
Grinn'd  horrible  a  gastly  smile,  to  hear      [Death 
His  famine  should  be  fill'd,  and  blest  his  maw 
Destin'd  to  that  good  hour :  no  less  rejoic'd 
His  mother  bad,  and  thus  bespake  her  sire : 

The  key  of  this  infernal  pit  by  due  sso 

And  by  command  of  heaven's  all-powerful  King, 
I  keep,  by  him  forbidden  to  unlock 
These  adamantine  gates  ;  against  all  force 
Death  ready  stands  to  interpose  his  dart. 
Fearless  to  be  o'ermatch'd  by  living  might.         sss 
But  what  owe  I  to  his  commands  above, 
Who  hates  me,  and  hath  hither  thrust  me  down 
Into  this  gloom  of  Tartarus  profound. 
To  sit  in  hateful  office,  here  confin'd, 
Inhabitant  of  heaven  and  heavenly-born,  aso 

Here,  in  perpetual  agony  and  pain, 
With  terrors  and  with  clamoui's  compass'd  round 
Of  mine  own  brood,  that  on  my  bowels  feed  ? 
Thou  art  my  father,  thou  my  author,  thou 
My  being  gav'st  me  ;  whom  should  I  obey         sra 
But  thee  ?  whom  follow  ?  thou  wilt  bring  me  soon 

842  buxom  air]  Spenser,  F.  Q.  i.  xi.  37. 
'  And  therewith  scourge  the  buxom  air  so  sore.'     Newton. 
846    Gfrinri'd  horriMe]    Imitated,  Mr.   Carey    thinks,   from 
Dante,  Inf.  v.; 

'  Stawi  Minos  orribilmente  e  ringhia. ' 


72  PARADISE    LOST. 

To  that  new  world  of  light  and  bhss,  among 
The  gods  who  live  at  ease,  where  I  shall  reign 
At  thy  right  hand  voluptuous,  as  beseems 
Thy  daughter  and  thy  darling,  without  end.       sro 

Thus  saying,  from  her  side  the  fatal  key, 
Sad  instrument  of  all  our  woe,  she  took  ; 
And,  towards  the  gate  roUing  her  bestial  train, 
Forthwith  the  huge  portcullis  high  up  drew. 
Which  but  herself  not  all  the  Stygian  powers     sts 
Could  once  have  mov'd ;  then  in  the  keyhole  turns 
Th'  intricate  wards,  and  every  bolt  and  bar 
Of  massy  iron  or  sohd  rock  with  ease 
Unfastens  :  on  a  sudden  open  fly 
With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound  sso 

Th'  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder,  that  the  lowest  bottom  shook 
Of  Erebus.     She  open'd,  but  to  shut 
Excell'd  her  power ;  the  gates  wide  open  stood, 
That  with  extended  wings  a  banner'd  host  sss 

Under  spread  ensigns  marching  might  pass  through 
With  horse  and  chariots  rank'd  in  loose  array ; 
So  wide  they  stood,  and  like  a  furnace  mouth 
Cast  forth  redounding  smoke  and  ruddy  flame. 

868  live  at  ease]  From  Homer,  Qeol  ()ela  ^uovTeg. 

Bentley. 
879  open  fly]  'Don  Bellianis,  part  ii.  chap.  19.     Open  flew 
the  brazen  foldmg  doors,  grating  harsh  thwnder  on  their  turning 
hinges.^     Svoift. 
889  imoke]  See  Dante  H  Purg.  c.  xxiv. 

'  E  giammai  non  si  videro  in  fornace 
Vetri  o  metalli  si  lucenti  e  rossi, 
Com'  io  vidi  im  che  dicea ' 


BOOK   II.  73 

Before  their  eyes  in  sudden  view  appear  sm 

The  secrets  of  the  hoary  deep,  a  dark 
Illimitable  ocean,  without  bound,  [height, 

Without  dimension,  where  length,  breadth,  and 
And  time  and  place  are  lost ;  where  eldest  Night 
And  Chaos,  ancestors  of  nature,  hold  895 

Eternal  anarchy  amidst  the  noise 
Of  endless  wars,  and  by  confusion  stand : 
For  hot,  cold,  moist,  and  dry,  four  champions  fierce, 
Strive  here  for  mast'ry,  and  to  battle  bring 
Their  embryon  atoms  ;  they  around  the  flag      mo 
Of  each  his  faction,  in  their  several  clans, 
Light-arm'd  or  heavy,  sharp,  smooth,  swift,  or  slow, 
Swarm  populous,  vmnumber'd  as  the  sands 
Of  Barca  or  Gyrene's  torrid  soil, 
Levy'd  to  side  with  warring  winds,  and  poise     sos 
Their  lighter  wings.    To  whom  these  most  adhere, 
He  rules  a  moment ;  Chaos  umpire  sits. 
And  by  decision  more  imbroils  the  fray 
By  which  he  reigns :  next  him  high  arbiter 
Chance  governs  all.     Lito  this  wild  abyss,  sw 

The  womb  of  nature  and  perhaps  her  gi*ave, 
Of  neither  sea,  nor  shore,  nor  air,  nor  fire, 
But  all  these  in  their  pregnant  causes  mix'd 
Confus'dly,  and  which  thus  must  ever  fight, 
Unless  th'  almighty  Maker  them  ordain  sis 

His  dark  materials  to  create  more  worlds ; 
Into  this  wild  abyss  the  wary  fiend 
Stood  on  the  brink  of  hell,  and  look'd  a  while, 

898  For  h)t\  Ovid.  Met.  i.  19.    NewUm. 


74  PARADISE    LOST. 

Pondering  his  voyage  ;  for  no  narrow  frith 

He  had  to  cross.     Nor  was  his  ear  less  peal'd  S2e 

With  noises  loud  and  ruinous,  to  compare 

Great  things  with  small,  than  when  Bellona  storms, 

"With  all  her  battering  engines  bent  to  rase 

Some  capital  city ;  or  less  than  if  this  frame 

Of  heaven  were  falling,  and  these  elements        92s 

In  mutiny  had  from  her  axle  torn 

The  stedfast  earth.    At  last  his  sail-broad  vans 

He  spreads  for  flight,  and  in  the  surging  smoke 

Uplifted  spurns  the  ground ;  thence  many  a  league 

As  in  a  cloudy  chair  ascending  rides  sso 

Audacious  ;  but,  that  seat  soon  failing,  meets 

A  vast  vacuity  :  all  unawares 

Flutt'ring  his  pennons  vain  plumb  down  he  drops 

Ten  thousand  fathom  deep,  and  to  this  hour 

Down  had  been  falling,  had  not  by  ill  chance     sas 

The  strong  rebuff  of  some  tumultuous  cloud 

Instinct  with  fire  and  nitre  hurried  him 

As  many  miles  aloft :  that  fury  stay'd, 

Quench'd  in  a  boggy  Syi'tis,  neither  sea, 

Nor  good  dry  land :  nigh  founder'd,  on  he  fares, 

927  sail-broad]   See  Maximi  Tyrii  Diss.  vol.  i.  p.  214,  ed. 
Reiske.   Tecvdaai  rug   nTcpvyag  ucnep  iaria.     And  Lucret. 
vi.  743.    '  Pennarum  vela  remittunt.'    Or  consult  Wakefield's 
note.     See  Milton's  Prose  Works,  i.  148:  ed.  Symmons. 
986  rehuff]  Compare  Statii  Tlieb.  vii.  35. 

'  Atque  ilium  Arctose  labentem  cardine  portaa 
Tempestas  setema  plagse,  prsetentaque  coelo 
Agmina  nimboram,  primique  Aquilonis  hiatus 
In  diversa  ferunt.' 


BOOK   II.  75 

Treading  the  crude  consistence,  Iialf  on  foot, 
Half  flying ;  behoves  him  now  both  oar  and  sail. 
As  when  a  gryfon  through  the  wilderness 
With  winged  course  o'er  hill  or  moory  dale 
Pursues  the  Arimaspian,  who  by  stealth  mj 

Had  from  his  wakeful  custody  purloin'd 
The  guarded  gold  :  so  eagerly  the  fiend        [rare, 
O'er  bog  or  steep,  through  strait,  rough,  dense,  or 
"With  head,  hands,  wings,  or  feet,  pursues  his  way, 
And  swims,  or  sinks,  or  wades,  or  creeps,  or  flies. 
At  length  a  universal  hubbub  wild 
Of  stunning  sounds  and  voices  all  confus'd, 
Borne  through  the  hollow  dark,  assaults  his  ear 
With  loudest  vehemence  :  thither  he  plies. 
Undaunted  to  meet  there  whatever  power  sss 

Or  spirit  of  the  nethermost  abyss 
Might  in  that  noise  reside,  of  whom  to  ask 

942  oar]  Beaumont's  Psyche,  c.  xvi.  st.  224. 
'  Spreading  their  wings  like  oars.' 
Marino's  SI.  of  the  Inn.  p.  49. 

'  With  wings  like  feather'd  oars.' 
And  Dante,  II.  Purg.  c.  ii.  32. 

'  Si  che  remo  non  vuol,  ne  altro  velc'     C.  xii.  5. 
9*6  Arimaspian]  ^schyli  Prometheus,  ver.  810.    See  Pomp. 
Mela;  lib.  ii.  c.  1.     SoHni  Polyh.  xv.  22.     Prisciani  Pervig. 
ver.  700.     Plauti  Aulularia,  act  iv.  sc.  8.  i.  p.  142.     Plin.  N. 
Hist.  lib.  iv.  c.  26.     See  Bulwer's  Artif.  Changeling,  p.  102. 

949  With  head]  See  Sidon.  Apollinar.  c.  ii.  171.  Antholog. 
Lat.  ed.  Burm.  vol.  1,  p.  403,  Ep.  cciii.  for  this  manner  ot 
speech : 

'  Pastor,  Arator,  Eques,  pavi,  colui,  superavi, 
Capras,  rus,  hostes,  fronde,  ligone,  manu.' 


76  PARADISE    LOST. 

Which  way  the  nearest  coast  of  darkness  lies, 
Bordering  on  light ;    when  straight  behold  the 

throne 
Of  Chaos,  and  his  dark  pavilion  spread  mo 

Wide  on  the  wasteful  Deep :  with  him  enthron'd 
Sat  sable-vested  Night,  eldest  of  things, 
The  consort  of  his  reign  ;  and  by  them  stood 
Orcus  and  Ades,  and  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Demogorgon  ;  Rumor  next,  and  Chance,       »S5 
And  Tumult,  and  Confusion,  all  imbroil'd. 
And  Discord  with  a  thousand  various  mouths. 
T'  whom  Satan  turning  boldly,  thus. — Ye  Powers, 
And  Spirits  of  this  nethermost  abyss, 
Chaos  and  ancient  Night,  I  come  no  spy,  970 

With  purpose  to  explore  or  to  disturb 
The  secrets  of  your  realm  ;  but  by  constraint 
Wand'ring  this  darksome  desert,  as  my  way 
Lies  through  your  spacious  empire  up  to  light, 
Alone,  and  without  guide,  half  lost,  I  seek  srs 

What  readiest  path  leads  where  your  gloomy  bounds 
Confine  with  heaven  ;  or  if  some  other  place, 
From  your  dominion  won,  th'  ethereal  King 
Possesses  lately,  thither  to  arrive 
I  travel  this  profound  ;  direct  my  course  ;  sso 

Directed,  no  mean  recompence  it  brings 
To  your  behoof,  if  I  that  region  lost, 
All  usurpation  thence  expell'd,  reduce 
To  her  original  darkness  and  your  sway, 
Which  is  my  present  journey,  and  once  more    om 
Erect  the  standard  there  of  ancient  Night; 


BOOK   II.  77 

Yours  be  th'  advantage  all,  mine  the  revenge. 

Thus  Satan  ;  and  him  thus  the  Anarch  old, 
With  fault'ring  speech  and  visage  incompos'd, 
Answer'd.    I  know  thee,  stranger,  who  thou  art,  990 
That  mighty  leading  angel,  who  of  late     [thrown. 
Made  head  against  heaven's  Eang,  though  over- 
I  saw  and  heard ;  for  such  a  numerous  host 
Fled  not  in  silence  through  the  frighted  deep. 
With  ruin  upon  ruin,  rout  on  rout,  sas 

Confusion  worse  confounded;  and  heaven-gates 
Pour'd  out  by  millions  her  victorious  bands 
Pursuing.     I  upon  my  frontiers  here 
Keep  residence  ;  if  all  I  can  will  serve. 
That  Httle  which  is  left  so  to  defend,  1000 

Encroach'd  on  still  thro'  your  intestine  broils 
Weak'ning  the  sceptre  of  old  Night :  first  heU, 
Your  dungeon,  stretching  far  and  wide  beneath ; 
Now  lately  heaven  and  earth,  another  world, 
Hung  o'er  my  realm,  link'd  in  a  golden  chain   loos 
To  that  side  heaven  from  whence  your  legions  fell : 
If  that  way  be  your  walk,  you  have  not  far ; 
So  much  the  nearer  danger :  go  and  speed  ; 
Havock,  and  spoil,  and  ruin  are  my  gain. 

He  ceas'd ;  and  Satan  stay'd  not  to  reply,     1010 
But  glad  that  now  his  sea  should  find  a  shore, 
With  fresh  alacrity  and  force  renew'd 
Springs  upward,  like  a  pyramid  of  fire, 

1013  a  pyramid  of  Jire\  Drayton  in  his  David  and  Goliah. 
1630. 

'  He  look't  like  to  a  piramid  onjire.'     Todd. 


78  PARA.DISE    LOST. 

Into  the  wild  expanse,  and  through  the  shock 

Of  fighting  elements,  on  all  sides  round  lois 

Environ'd,  wins  his  way ;  harder  beset 

And  more  endanger'd,  than  when  Argo  pass'd 

Through  Bosporus  betwixt  the  justling  rocks : 

Or  when  Ulysses  on  the  larboard  shunn'd 

Charybdis,  and  by  th'  other  whirlpool  steer'd.  loaa 

So  he  with  difficulty  and  labour  hard 

Mov'd  on,  with  difficulty  and  labour  he ; 

But  he  once  past,  soon  after  when  man  fell, 

Strange  alteration !  Sin  and  Death  amain 

Following  his  track,  such  was  the  will  of  Heaven, 

Pav'd  after  him  a  broad  and  beaten  way  1026 

Over  the  dark  abyss,  whose  boiling  gulf 

Tamely  endur'd  a  bridge  of  wond'rous  length, 

From  hell  continu'd,  reaching  th'  utmost  orb 

Of  this  frail  world ;  by  which  the  spirits  perverse 

With  easy  intercourse  pass  to  and  fro 

To  tempt  or  punish  mortals,  except  whom 

God  and  good  angels  guard  by  special  grace. 

But  now  at  last  the  sacred  influence 

Of  light  appears,  and  from  the  walls  of  heaven  1035 

Shoots  far  into  the  bosom  of  dim  Night 

A  glimmering  dawn  :  here  Nature  first  begins 

Her  farthest  verge,  and  Chaos  to  retire 

As  from  her  outmost  works,  a  broken  foe, 

With  tumult  less  and  with  less  hostile  din,         imo 

That  Satan  with  less  toil  and  now  with  ease 

Wafts  on  the  calmer  wave  by  dubious  light, 

And  like  a  weather-beaten  vessel  holds 


BOOK  II.  79 

Gladly  the  port,  though  shrouds  and  tackle  torn ; 
Or  in  the  emptier  waste,  resembling  air,  1045 

Weighs  his  spread  wings,  at  leisure  to  behold 
Far  off  th'  empyreal  heaven,  extended  wide 
In  circuit,  undetermin'd  square  or  round, 
With  opal  towers  and  battlements  adorn'd 
Of  living  sapphire,  once  his  native  seat ;  loso 

And  fast  by,  hanging  in  a  golden  chain 
This  pendant  world,  in  bigness  as  a  star 
Of  smallest  magnitude  close  by  the  moon. 
Thither  full  fraught  with  mischievous  revenge, 
Accurs'd,  and  in  a  cursed  hour,  he  hies.  1055 

1062  This  pendant    world]    Verbatim    from    Shakespeare's 
Meas.for  Meas.  act  iii.  scene  i. 
i064  mischievous] 

'  Thither  full  fraught,  tciA  hope  of  wisJied  success.' 

Bentl.  MS. 


80 


PARADISE    LOST.     " 
BOOK  m. 

THE  AKGU3IENT. 

God  sitting  on  his  throne  sees  Satan  flying  towards  this  world, 
then  newly  created ;  shows  him  to  the  Son,  who  sat  at  his 
right  hand;  foretells  the  success  of  Satan  in  perverting  man- 
kind; clears  his  own  justice  and  wisdom  from  all  imputa- 
tion, having  created  Man  free,  and  able  enough  to  have  with- 
stood his  tempter;  yet  declares  his  purpose  of  gi-ace  towards 
him,  in  regard  he  fell  not  of  his  own  malice,  as  did  Satan, 
but  by  him  seduced.  The  Son  of  God  renders  praises  to  his 
Father  for  the  manifestation  of  his  gracious  purpose  towards 
Man :  but  God  again  declares,  that  gi-ace  cannot  be  extended 
towards  Man  without  the  satisfaction  of  divine  justice ;  Man 
hath  offended  the  majesty  of  God  by  aspiring  to  Godhead, 
and  therefore  with  all  his  progeny  devoted  to  death  must  die, 
unless  some  one  can  be  found  sufficient  to  answer  for  his 
offence,  and  undergo  his  punishment.  The  Son  of  God  freely 
offers  himself  a  ransom  for  Man;  the  Father  accepts  him, 
ordains  his  incarnation,  pronounces  his  exaltation  above  all 
names  in  heaven  and  earth;  commands  all  the  Angels  to 
adore  him;  they  obey,  and,  hymning  to  their  harps  in  full 
choir,  celebrate  the  Father  and  the  Son.  Mean  while  Satan 
alights  upon  the  bare  convex  of  this  world's  outermost  orb ; 
where  wandering  he  first  finds  a  place,  since  called  the  Limbo 
of  Vanity ;  what  persons  and  things  fly  up  thither ;  thence 
comes  to  the  gate  of  heaven,  described  ascending  by  stairs, 
and  the  waters  above  the  firmament  that  flow  about  it:  his 
passage  thence  to  the  orb  of  the  sun ;  he  finds  there  Uriel  the 
regent  of  that  orb ;  but  first  changes  himself  into  the  shape 
of  a  meaner  angel ;  and  pretending  a  zealous  desire  to  behold 
the  new  creation,  and  Man  whom  God  had  placed  here, 
inquires  of  him  the  place  of  his  habitation,  and  is  directed; 
alights  first  on  mount  Niphates. 


BOOK    HI. 


81 


Hail  holy  ligbt !  offspring  of  heav'n  first-born ; 

Or  of  th'  eternal  co-eternal  beam 

May  I  express  thee  unblam'd  ?  since  God  is  light, 

And  never  but  in  unapproached  light 

Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  then  in  thee,  s 

Bright  eflluence  of  bright  essence  increate. 

Or  hear'st  thou  rather  pure  ethereal  stream, 

Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell  ?  before  the  sun, 

Before  the  heavens  thou  wert,  and  at  the  voice 

Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  invest  w 

The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and  deep. 

Won  from  the  void  and  formless  infinite. 

Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing, 

Escap'd  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detain'd 

In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while  in  my  flight  is 

Through  utter  and  through  middle  darkness  borne, 

With  other  notes,  than  to  th'  Orphean  lyre, 

1  sung  of  Chaos  and  eternal  Night, 

Taught  by  the  heavenly  Muse  to  venture  down 

3  God  is  light]     See  Wakef.  Lucret.  1.  p.  320.    '  Per  em- 
phasin  Deus  ssepissime  Sol  audit.     Ov.  Met.  xv.  192. 
'  Ipse  Dei  clypeus,  terra  cum  tollitur  ima, 

Mane  mbet ' 

adeas  notata  nobis  ad  Virg.    Georg.  i.  6.' 

8  fountain]  See  Lucret.  5.  282,  '  largus  item  liquidi 
fons  luminis.' 

17  other  notes]  See  Bembo  Sonnetti,  p.  26,  '  con  altra  voce  * 
Dante  II  Parad.  c.  xxv.  7,  '  Om  aUra  voce  omai,  con  altra 
vello  Ritornero  Poeta.' 

VOL.   I.  6 


82  PARADISE   LOST. 

The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  reascend,  a» 

Though  hard  and  rare  :  thee  I  revisit  safe, 
And  feel  thy  sov'reign  vital  lamp  ;  but  thou 
Revisit'st  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn ; 
So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quench'd  their  orbs,  25 
Or  dim  suflEusion  veil'd  ;    Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I  to  wander  whei'e  the  Muses  haunt 
Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song  ;  but  chief 
Thee  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath,         30 
That  wash  thy  hallow'd  feet,  and  warbling  flow, 
Nightly  I  visit ;  nor  sometimes  forget 
Those  other  two  equal'd  with  me  in  fate, 
So  were  I  equal'd  with  them  in  renown. 
Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Maeonides,  35 

And  Tiresias  and  Pliineus  prophets  old  ; 
Then  feed  on  thoughts,  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers ;  as  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darkling,  and  in  shadiest  covert  hid 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note.    Thus  with  the  year  « 
Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 

25  quench'd]  drench'd.    Bentl.  MS. 

25  wbs]  Val.  Flacc.  iv.  235.    '  Sanguineosque  rotat  orbes.' 
See  Burmari's  Note. 

30  jknoery  brooks\   flowing,  silver,  crystal,  pui-ling.    BenlL 
MS. 

85  Thamyris\  Stat.  Theb.  iv.  183. 

'  Mutos  Thamyris  daninatus  in  annos." 


BOOK    III.  83 

Or  sight  of  venial  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 

Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine ; 

But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark  « 

Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 

Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 

Presented  with  a  universal  blank 

Of  nature's  works  to  me  expung'd  and  ras'd. 

And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out.        so 

So  much  the  rather  thou  celestial  Light 

Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 

Irradiate,  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 

Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 

Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight.  ss 

Now  had  the  Almighty  Father  from  above, 
From  the  pure  empyrean  where  he  sits 
High  thron'd  above  all  highth,  bent  down  his  eye, 
His  own  works  and  their  works  at  once  to  view. 
About  him  all  the  Sanctities  of  heaven  «> 

Stood  thick  as  stars,  and  from  his  sight  receiv'd 
Beatitude  past  utterance  ;  on  his  right 
The  radiant  image  of  his  glory  sat, 
His  only  Son  :  on  earth  he  first  beheld 
Our  two  first  parents,  yet  the  only  two  as 

Of  mankind,  in  the  happy  garden  plac'd. 
Reaping  immortal  fruits  of  joy  and  love, 
Unmterrupted  joy,  unrival'd  love, 

49  Q/"]  Pearce  proposes  to  read  'All  nature's  works,'  and 
Newton  agrees  with  him,  putting  a  stop  after  '  blank,'  but  I 
do  not  understand  the  force  of  their  objection  to  the  esta- 
blished text. 


84  PARADISE   LOST. 

In  blissful  solitude :  he  then  survey'd 

Hell  and  the  gulf  between,  and  Satan  there        n 

Coasting  the  wall  of  heaven  on  this  side  night 

In  the  dun  air  sublime,  and  ready  now 

To  stoop  with  wearied  wings,  and  willing  feet 

On  the  bare  outside  of  this  world,  that  seem'd 

Firm  land-imbosom'd  without  firmament,  75 

Uncertain  which,  in  ocean  or  in  air. 

Him  God  beholding  from  his  prospect  high, 

Wherein  past,  present,  future,  he  beholds, 

Thus  to  his  only  Son  foreseeing  spake. 

Only  begotten  Son,  seest  thou  what  rage         so 
Transports  our  adversary,  whom  no  bounds 
Prescrib'd,  no  bars  of  hell,  nor  all  the  chains 
Heap'd  on  him  there,  nor  yet  the  main  abyss 
Wide  interrupt,  can  hold,  so  bent  he  seems 
On  desperate  revenge,  that  shall  redound  so 

Upon  his  own  rebellious  head  ?     And  now 
Through  all  restraint  broke  loose  he  wings  his  way 
Not  far  off  heaven,  in  the  precincts  of  light, 
Directly  towards  the  new  created  world. 
And  man  there  plac'd,  with  purpose  to  assay       so 
If  him  by  force  he  can  destroy,  or  worse, 
By  some  false  guile  pervert ;  and  shall  pervert  ? 
For  man  will  hearken  to  his  glozing  lies, 
And  easily  transgress  the  sole  command, 
Sole  pledge  of  his  obedience  :  so  will  fall 

93  glozing  lies]  See  Beaumont's  Psyche,  c.  v.  37. 
'  With  humble  lies,  and  oaths  of  ghzings  drest.' 
See  also  B.  ix.  549,  '  so  ghz'd  the  tempter.' 


BOOK   III.  85 

He  and  his  faithless  progeny.     Whose  fault  ? 
Whose  but  his  own  ?  ingrate,  he  had  of  me 
All  he  could  have  :  I  made  him  just  and  right, 
Sufficient  to  have  stood,  though  free  to  fall. 
Such  I  created  all  th'  ethereal  Powers  loo 

And  Spirits,  both  them  who  stood  and  them  who 

faU'd : 
Freely  they  stood  who  stood,  and  fell  who  fell. 
Not  free,  what  proof  could  they  have  giv'n  sincere 
Of  true  allegiance,  constant  faith,  or  love. 
Where  only,  what  they  needs  must  do,  appear'd,  los 
Not  what  they  would  ?  what  praise  could  they  re- 
What  pleasure  I  from  such  obedience  paid,  [ceive  ? 
When  will  and  reason,  reason  also  is  choice, 
Useless  and  vain,  of  freedom  both  despoil'd. 
Made  passive  both,  had  serv'd  necessity,  uo 

Not  me  ?  They  therefore,  as  to  right  belong'd. 
So  were  created,  nor  can  justly  accuse 
Their  Maker,  or  their  making,  or  their  fate ; 
As  if  predestination  over-rul'd 
Their  will,  dispos'd  by  absolute  decree  "s 

Or  high  foreknowledge :  they  themselves  decreed 
Their  own  revolt,  not  I :  if  I  foreknew, 
Foreknowledge  had  no  influence  on  their  fault, 
WTiich  had  no  less  prov'd  certain  unforeknown. 
So  without  least  impulse  or  shadow  of  fate,       120 
Or  aught  by  me  immutably  foreseen, 
They  trespass,  authors  to  themselves  in  all, 

108  '  When  God  gave  him  reason  he  gave  him  freedom  to 
choose ;  for  reason  is  but  choosing.'    Milton's  Areopagiiica. 


86  PARADISE    LOST. 

Both  what  they  judge  and  what  they  choose ;  for  so 
I  form'd  them  free,  and  free  they  must  remain, 
Till  they  enthrall  themselves ;  I  else  must  change 
Their  nature,  and  revoke  the  high  decree,  iss 

Unchangeable,  eternal,  which  ordain'd 
Their  freedom  ;  they  themselves  ordain'd  their  fall. 
The  first  sort  by  their  own  suggestion  fell. 
Self-tempted,  self-deprav'd  :  man  falls  deceiv'd  lao 
By  the  other  first :  man  therefore  shall  find  grace, 
The  other  none  :  in  mercy  and  justice  both. 
Through  heaven  and  earth,  so  shall  my  glory  excel ; 
But  mercy  first  and  last  shall  brightest  shine. 

Thus  while  God  spake,  ambrosial  fragrance  fill'd 
All  heaven,  and  in  the  blessed  spirits  elect         lae 
Sense  of  new  joy  ineffable  diffus'd. 
Beyond  compare  the  Son  of  God  was  seen 
Most  glorious,  in  him  all  his  Father  shone 
Substantially  express'd,  and  in  his  face  im 

Divine  compassion  visibly  appear'd. 
Love  without  end,  and  without  measure  grace ; 
Which  uttering  thus  he  to  his  Father  spake. 

O  Father,  gracious  was  that  word  which  clos'd 
Thy  sov'reign  sentence,  that  man  should  find  grace ; 
For  which  both  heaven  and  earth  shall  high  extol 
Thy  praises,  with  th'  innumerable  sound 
Of  hymns  and  sacred  songs,  wherewith  thy  throne 
Encompass'd  shall  resound  thee  ever  blest. 
For  should  man  finally  be  lost,  should  man        iso 

139  Father]  P.  Fletcher.  P.  Isl.  c.  xii.  st.  81. 

'  Full  of  his  father  shines  his  glorious  face.'     Todd. 


BOOK    III.  87 

Thy  creature  late  so  lov'd,  thy  youngest  son, 
Fall  circumvented  thus  by  fraud,  though  join'd 
With  his  own  folly  ?  that  be  from  thee  far, 
That  far  be  from  thee,  Father,  who  art  judge 
Of  all  things  made,  and  judgest  only  right.  iss 

Or  shall  the  adversary  thus  obtain 
His  end,  and  frustrate  thine  ?  shall  he  fulfil 
His  malice,  and  thy  goodness  bring  to  naught. 
Or  proud  return  though  to  his  heavier  doom, 
Yet  with  revenge  accomplish'd,  and  to  hell         iso 
Draw  after  him  the  whole  race  of  mankind, 
By  him  corrupted  ?  or  wilt  thou  thyself 
Abolish  thy  creation,  and  unmake. 
For  him,  what  for  thy  glory  thou  has  made  ? 
So  should  thy  goodness  and  thy  greatness  both   iss 
Be  question'd  and  blasphem'd  without  defence. 

To  whom  the  great  Creator  thus  replied. 
0  Son,  in  whom  my  soul  hath  chief  delight, 
Son  of  my  bosom.  Son  who  art  alone 
My  word,  my  wisdom,  and  effectual  might,         ito 
All  hast  thou  spoken  as  my  thoughts  are,  aU 
As  my  eternal  purpose  hath  decreed : 
Man  shall  not  quite  be  lost,  but  sav'd  who  will, 
Yet  not  of  will  in  him,  but  grace  in  me 
Freely  vouchsaf 'd  :  once  more  I  will  renew       175 

163  that]  Newton  observes  that  this  is  from  Genesis,  xviii. 
25.    '  That  be  far  from  thee,'  &c. 
169  Son]  '  My  Son,  my  only  stay, 

My  hand,  my  honor,  and  my  might.' 

See  Gokling's  Ovid,  p.  62. 


88  PARADISE   LOST. 

His  lapsed  powers,  though  forfeit  and  enthrall'd 

By  sin  to  foul  exorbitant  desires : 

Upheld  by  me,  yet  once  more  he  shall  stand 

On  even  ground  against  his  mortal  foe. 

By  me  upheld,  that  he  may  know  how  frail       is" 

His  fall'n  condition  is,  and  to  me  owe 

All  his  deliv'rance,  and  to  none  but  me. 

Some  I  have  chosen  of  peculiar  grace 

Elect  above  the  rest ;  so  is  my  will : 

The  rest  shall  hear  me  call,  and  oft  be  warn'd  las 

Their  sinful  state,  and  to  appease  betimes 

Th'  incensed  Deity,  while  offer'd  grace 

Invites  ;  for  I  will  clear  their  senses  dark, 

What  may  suifice,  and  soften  stony  hearts 

To  pray,  repent,  and  bring  obedience  due.  iso 

To  prayer,  repentance,  and  obedience  due, 

Though  but  endeavour'd  with  sincere  intent, 

Mine  ear  shall  not  be  slow,  mine  eye  not  shut. 

And  I  will  place  within  them  as  a  guide 

My  umpire  Conscience,  whom  if  they  will  hear,  im 

Light  after  light  well  us'd  they  shall  attain, 

And  to  the  end  persisting  safe  arrive. 

This  my  long  suflferance  and  my  day  of  grace 

They  who  neglect  and  scorn  shall  never  taste ; 

But  hard  be  harden'd,  blind  be  blinded  more,     aoo 

That  they  may  stumble  on,  and  deeper  fall ; 

And  none  but  such  from  mercy  I  exclude. 

170  lapsed]  '  lapsas  acuit  mentes,'  v.  Sil.  Ital.  x.  606. 
189  stmy]  Ezek.  xxxvi.  26.    '  I  will  take  away  the  stonif 
heart  out  of  your  flesh.'     Gillies. 


BOOK    III.  89 

But  yet  all  is  not  done  ;  man  disobeying 

Disloyal  breaks  his  fealty,  and  sins 

Against  the  high  supremacy  of  heaven,  aos 

Affecting  Godhead,  and  so  losing  all. 

To  expiate  his  treason  hath  naught  left, 

But  to  destruction  sacred  and  devote, 

He  with  his  whole  posterity  must  die. 

Die  he  or  justice  must ;  unless  for  him  sto 

Some  other  able,  and  as  willing,  pay 

The  rigid  satisfaction,  death  for  death.         [love  ? 

Say  heavenly  Powers,  where  shall  we  find  such 

Which  of  ye  will  be  mortal  to  redeem 

Man's  mortal  crime,  and  just  th'  unjust  to  save  ?  2»s 

Dwells  in  all  heaven  charity  so  dear? 

He  ask'd,  but  all  the  heavenly  choir  stood  mute. 
And  silence  was  in  heaven :  on  man's  behalf 
Patron  or  intercessor  none  appear'd. 
Much  less  that  durst  upon  his  own  head  draw    220 
The  deadly  forfeiture,  and  ransom  set. 
And  now  without  redemption  all  mankind 
Must  have  been  lost,  adjudg'd  to  death  and  hell 
By  doom  severe,  had  not  the  Son  of  God, 
Li  whom  the  fulness  dweUs  of  love  divine,         225 
His  dearest  mediation  thus  renew'd. 

Father,  thy  word  is  pass'd,  man  shall  find  grace  ; 
And  shall  grace  not  find  means,  that  finds  her  way, 
The  speediest  of  thy  winged  messengers. 
To  visit  aU  thy  creatures,  and  to  all  28o 

Comes  unprevented,  unimplor'd,  unsought  ? 
208  sacred]  '  sacrate.'    Bentl.  MS. 


90  PARADISE    LOST. 

Happy  for  man,  so  coming  ;  he  her  aid 
Can  never  seek,  once  dead  in  sins  and  lost ; 
Atonement  for  himself  or  offering  meet, 
Lidebted  and  undone,  hath  none  to  bring.  235 

Behold  me  then,  me  for  him,  life  for  life, 
I  offer,  on  me  let  thine  anger  fall ; 
Account  me  man  ;  I  for  his  sake  will  leave 
Thy  bosom,  and  this  glory  next  to  thee 
Freely  put  off,  and  for  him  lastly  die  2« 

Well  pleas'd ;  on  me  let  Death  wreak  all  his  rage ; 
Under  his  gloomy  power  I  shall  not  long 
Lie  vanquish'd  ;  thou  hast  giv'n  me  to  possess 
Life  in  myself  for  ever,  by  thee  I  live. 
Though  now  to  Death  I  yield,  and  am  his  due 
All  that  of  me  can  die  ;  yet  that  debt  paid,        248 
Thou  wilt  not  leave  me  in  the  loathsome  grave 
His  prey,  nor  suffer  my  unspotted  soul 
For  ever  with  corruption  there  to  dwell : 
But  I  shall  rise  victorious,  and  subdue  233 

My  vanquisher,  spoil'd  of  his  vaunted  spoil ; 
Death  his  death's  wound  shall  then  receive,  and 
Inglorious,  of  his  mortal  sting  disarm'd.       [stoop 
I  through  the  ample  air  in  triumph  high 
Shall  lead  hell  captive  maugre  hell,  and  show    25s 
The  powers  of  darkness  bound.     Thou,  at  the  sight 

236  me]  The  frequent  repetition  of  '  me '  is  like  Virgil,  ^n. 
ix.  427. 

'Me,  me,  adsum  qui  feci,  in  me  convertite  ferrum.'    NewUm. 

^^i maugre  hell]  'Such  Life  that  maugre  Eell  he  lives.' 
Sir  T.  Hawkins'  Horace,  (1638)  p.  72.    '  Maugre  thy  fury,'  v. 


BOOK    III.  91 

Pleas'd,  out  of  heaven  shalt  look  down  and  smile, 
While  by  thee  rais'd  I  ruin  all  my  foes, 
Death  last,  and  with  his  carcase  glut  the  grave : 
Then  with  the  multitude  of  my  redeem'd  sso 

Shall  enter  heaven  long  absent,  and  return, 
Father,  to  see  thy  face,  wherein  no  cloud 
Of  anger  shall  remain,  but  peace  assur'd 
And  reconcilement :  wrath  shall  be  no  more 
Thenceforth,  but  in  thy  presence  joy  entire.       ass 

His  words  here  ended,  but  his  meek  aspect 
Silent  yet  spake,  and  breath'd  immortal  love 
To  mortal  men,  above  which  only  shone 
Filial  obedience  :  as  a  sacrifice 
Glad  to  be  offer'd,  he  attends  the  will  270 

Of  his  great  Father.     Admiration  seiz'd 
All  heaven,  what  this  might  mean  and  whither  tend 
Wond'ring  ;  but  soon  th'  Almighty  thus  reply'd : 

O  thou  in  heaven  and  earth  the  only  peace 
Found  out  for  mankind  under  wrath,  0  thou      275 
My  sole  complacence  !  well  thou  know'st  how  dear 
To  me  are  all  my  works,  nor  man  the  least, 

Marino's  SI.  of  the  Inn.  p.  58.  '  Maugre  thine  enemies'  hate.' 
Gayton's  Ch.  Script,  p.  3.  4to. 

267  imnwi-tal  hve]  See  Luceret.  v.  122.  ^  Imnwrtalia 
moriali  sermone  notantes.'  Aristot.  de  Rhetor,  ii.  17.  2, 
a^avaTov  bpyijv  fOj  (j)v?MTTe,  ^vriTog  uv. 

277  least]  Shakespeare's  Lear,  act  i.  scene  1. 
'  Now  our  joy, 
Although  the  last,  not  least.' 
and  Jul.  Cses.  act  iii.  scene  1. 

'  Though  last,  not  least,  in  love.'    Neioton. 


92  PARADISE   LOST. 

Thougli  last  created,  that  for  him  I  spare 
Thee  from  my  bosom  and  right  hand,  to  save, 
By  losing  thee  awhile,  the  whole  race  lost.         280 
Thou  therefore  whom  thou  only  can'st  redeem 
Their  nature  also  to  thy  nature  join  ; 
And  be  thy  self  man  among  men  on  earth. 
Made  flesh,  when  time  shall  be,  of  virgin  seed, 
By  wondrous  birth  :  be  thou  in  Adam's  room     ass 
The  head  of  all  mankind,  though  Adam's  son. 
As  in  him  perish  all  men,  so  in  thee, 
As  from  a  second  root,  shall  be  restor'd. 
As  many  as  are  restor'd,  without  thee  none. 
His  crime  makes  guilty  all  his  sons  ;  thy  merit    aso 
Imputed  shall  absolve  them  who  renounce 
Their  own  both  righteous  and  unrighteous  deeds. 
And  live  in  thee  transplanted,  and  from  thee 
Receive  new  life.     So  man,  as  is  most  just, 
Shall  satisfy  for  man,  be  judged  and  die  ;  295 

And  dying  I'ise,  and  rising  with  him  raise 
His  brethren,  ransom'd  with  his  own  dear  life. 
So  heavenly  love  shall  outdo  hellish  hate, 
Giving  to  death,  and  dying  to  redeem, 
So  dearly  to  redeem  what  hellish  hate  300 

So  easily  destroy'd,  and  stiU  destroys 
In  those  who,  when  they  may,  accept  not  grace. 
Nor  shalt  thou  by  descending  to  assume 
Man's  nature  lessen  or  degrade  thine  own. 
Because  thou  hast,  though  thron'd  in  highest  blisa 

801  destroys]  The  fall  is  spoken  of  as  a  thing  past,  but  as 
perhaps  present  to  the  divine  mind,  so  ver.  161  and  181.  Pearce- 


BOOK   III.  93 

Equal  to  God,  and  equally  enjoying  aos 

God-like  fruition,  quitted  all  to  save 
A  world  from  utter  loss,  and  hast  been  found 
By  merit  more  than  birthright,  Son  of  God, 
Found  worthiest  to  be  so  by  being  good,  sio 

Far  more  than  great  or  high  ;  because  in  thee 
Love  hath  abounded  more  than  glory  abounds  ; 
Therefore  thy  humiliation  shall  exalt 
With  thee  thy  manhood  also  to  this  throne  ; 
Here  shalt  thou  sit  incarnate,  here  shalt  reign    sis 
Both  God  and  Man,  Son  both  of  God  and  Man, 
Anointed  universal  king  ;  all  power 
I  give  thee,  reign  for  ever,  and  assume 
Thy  merits  ;  under  thee  as  head  supreme 
Thrones,  Princedoms,  Powers,  Dominions,!  reduce: 
All  knees  to  thee  shall  bow,  of  them  that  bide     321 
In  heaven,  or  earth,  or  under  earth  in  hell. 
When  thou  attended  gloriously  from  heaven 
Shalt  in  the  sky  appear,  and  from  thee  send 
The  summoning  archangels  to  proclaim  325 

Thy  di-ead  tribunal,  forthwith  from  all  winds 
The  living,  and  forthwith  the  cited  dead 
Of  all  past  ages,  to  the  general  doom 

306  Equal]  Newton  says,  '  this  is  an  instance  of  Milton's 
orthodoxy ; '  how  could  he  have  overlooked  the  lines  that 
follow  ? 

'  By  merHt  more  than  birthright  Son  of  God.' 

825  archangels]  Archangel;  1.  Thessal.  iv.  10.  St.  Matt, 
xxiv.  31.  Bend.  MS.  '  The  Archangel  Michael  is  the  only 
Archangel  of  whom  we  know  any  thing  from  holy  Writ.' 
Horsky's  Sermons,  p.  583,  8vo. 


94  PARADISE    LOST. 

Shall  hasten,  such  a  peal  shall  rouse  their  sleep. 
Then,  all  thy  saints  assembled,  thou  shalt  judge 
Bad  men  and  angels  ;  they  arraign'd  shall  sink 
Beneath  thy  sentence ;  hell,  her  numbers  full, 
Thenceforth  shall  be  for  ever  shut.     Mean  while 
The  world  shall  burn,  and  from  her  ashes  spring 
New  heaven  and  earth,  wherein  the  just  shall  dwell, 
And  after  all  their  tribulations  long  sae 

See  golden  days,  fruitful  of  golden  deeds. 
With  joy  and  love  triumphing,  and  fair  truth  : 
Then  thou  thy  regal  sceptre  shalt  lay  by, 
For  regal  sceptre  then  no  more  shall  need,         340 
God  shall  be  all  in  all.     But  all  ye  Gods 
Adore  him,  who  to  compass  all  this  dies, 
Adore  the  Son,  and  honour  him  as  me. 

No  sooner  had  th'  Almighty  ceas'd,  but  all 
The  multitude  of  angels  with  a  shout,  345 

Loud  as  fx'om  numbers  without  number,  sweet 
As  from  blest  voices,  uttering  joy,  heaven  rung 
With  jubilee,  and  loud  hosannas  fiU'd 
Th'  eternal  regions.     Lowly  reverent 
Towards  either  throne  they  bow,  and  to  the  ground 
With  solemn  adoration  down  they  cast 
Their  crowns  inwove  with  amarant  and  gold ; 
Immortal  amarant,  a  flower  which  once 
In  paradise  fast  by  the  Tree  of  Life 

837  goldenl  Virg.  Eclog.  iv.  9. 

'  Toto  surget  gens  aurea  mundo.'    Hume 
845  angeh\    On  the   construction   of  this   sentence,   see 
Pearce's  and  Monboddo's  note. 


BOOK    III.  95 

Began  to  bloom,  but  soon  for  man's  offence        sss 
To  heaven  remov'd,  where  first  it  grew,  there  grows, 
And  flowers  aloft  shading  the  fount  of  life. 
And  where  the  river  of  bliss  through  midst  of  heaven 
Rolls  o'er  Elysian  flowers  her  amber  stream ; 
With  these  that  never  fade  the  spirits  elect         sso 
Bind  their  resplendent  locks  inwreath'd  with  beams : 
Now  in  loose  garlands  thick  thrown  off,  the  bright 
Pavement,  that  like  a  sea  of  jasper  shone, 
Impurpled  with  celestial  roses  smil'd. 
Then  crown'd  again  their  golden  harps  they  took, 
Harps  ever  tun'd,  that  glittering  by  their  side    see 
Like  quivers  hung,  and  with  preamble  sweet 
Of  channing  symphony  they  introduce 
Their  sacred  song,  and  waken  raptures  high  ; 
No  voice  exempt,  no  voice  but  well  could  join  370 
Melodious  part,  such  concord  is  in  heaven. 

Thee,  Father,  first  they  sung.  Omnipotent, 
Immutable,  Immortal,  Infinite, 
Eternal  King  ;  thee  author  of  all  being, 
Fountain  of  light,  thyself  invisible  srs 

Amidst  the  glorious  brightness  where  thou  sitt'st 
Thron'd  inaccessible,  but  when  thou  shad'st 
The  full  blaze  of  thy  beams,  and  through  a  cloud 


359  jlawers]  fields,  plains,  gems.    Bentl.  MS. 
859  amber\  Callim.  St.  Ceres,  29,  uT^KTpLvov  vdup  ;  and 
Virg.  Gpor.  iii.  522.     Newton. 
8«3  Impurpled]  '  Tutto  di  Eose  imporporaio  il  cielo.' 
Marino  Ad.  c.  iv.  st.  291.     Thyer. 


96  PARADISE    LOST. 

Drawn  round  about  thee  like  a  radiant  shrine, 
Dark  with  excessive  bright  thy  skirts  appear  ;  sso 
Yet  dazzle  heaven,  that  brightest  seraphim 
Approach  not,  but  with  both  wings  veil  their  eyes. 
Thee  next  they  sang  of  all  creation  first, 
Begotten  Son,  Divine  Similitude, 
In  whose  conspicuous  count'nance,  without  cloud 
Made  visible,  the  Almighty  Father  shines,  386 

Whom  else  no  creature  can  behold  :  on  thee 
Impress'd  th'  effulgence  of  his  glory  abides ; 
Transfus'd  on  thee  his  ample  Spirit  rests. 
He  heaven  of  heavens  and  all  the  powers  therein  390 
By  thee  created,  and  by  thee  threw  down 
Th'  aspiring  dominations.     Thou  that  day 
Thy  father's  dreadful  thunder  didst  not  spare, 
Nor  stop  thy  flaming  chariot  wheels,  that  shook 
Heav'n's  everlasting  frame,  while  o'er  the  necks  395 
Thou  drov'st  of  warring  angels  disarray'd. 
Back  from  pursuit  thy  powers  with  loud  acclaim 
Thee  only  extoll'd.  Son  of  thy  Father's  might. 
To  execute  fierce  vengeance  on  his  foes  : 
Not  so  on  man  ;  him  thro'  their  malice  fall'n,     400 
Father  of  mercy  and  grace,  thou  didst  not  doom 

880  Dark] 

'  Caligine  e  lassii  d'ombre  lucenti 
In  cui  s'  involve  Re  ch'  il  ciel  govema; 
Quivi  Iddio  pose  in  fulgide  tenebre 
E'n  profondo  silenzio,  alte  latebre.' 

Tasso  Gier.  Lib.    See  Blade's  Life,  ii.  489. 
894  shook]  v.  Fairfax's  Tasso,  ii.  91. 

'  Againe  to  sliake  Heav'n's  everlasting  frame.''     Todd. 


BOOK    III.  97 

So  strictly ;  but  mucli  more  to  pity  incline. 
No  sooner  did  thy  dear  and  only  Son 
Perceive  thee  purpos'd  not  to  doom  frail  man 
So  strictly,  but  much  more  to  pity  inclin'd,         4<k 
He  to  appease  thy  wi'ath,  and  end  the  strife 
Of  mercy  and  justice  in  thy  face  discern'd, 
Regardless  of  the  bliss  wherein  he  sat 
Second  to  thee,  offer'd  himself  to  die 
For  man's  offence.     O  unexampled  love,  410 

Love  no  where  to  be  found  less  than  Divine  ! 
HaU  Son  of  God,  Saviour  of  men,  thy  name 
Shall  be  the  copious  matter  of  my  song 
Henceforth,  and  never  shall  my  harp  thy  praise 
Forget,  nor  from  thy  Father's  praise  disjoin.      415 
Thus  they  in  heaven,  above  the  starry  sphere. 
Their  happy  hours  in  joy  and  hymning  spent, 
Mean  while  upon  the  firm  opacous  globe 
Of  this  round  world,  whose  first  convex  divides 
The  luminous  inferior  orbs,  inclos'd  420 

From  Chaos  and  th'  inroad  of  Darkness  old, 
Satan  alighted  walks  :  a  globe  far  off 
It  seem'd,  now  seems  a  boundless  continent, 
Dark,  waste,  and  wild,  under  the  frown  of  night 
Starless  expos'd,  and  ever-threat'ning  storms      42s 
Of  Chaos  blust'ring  round,  inclement  sky  ; 
Save  on  that  side  which  from  the  wall  of  heaven 

406  fiej    '  Than '  or  '  but '   is  understood  before  '  He,'  to 
complete  the  sense.    Newton. 
412  Hail\  Yirg.  iEn.  viii.  301. 

'  Salve,  vera  Jovis  proles,  decus  addite  divis.'    Newton 
VOL.   I.  7 


98  PARADISE   LOST. 

Though  distant  far  some  small  reflection  gains 
Of  glimmering  air,  less  vex'd  with  tempest  loud : 
Here  walk'd  the  fiend  at  large  in  spacious  field.  430 
As  when  a  vulture  on  Imaus  bred, 
Wliose  snowy  ridge  the  roving  Tartar  bounds. 
Dislodging  from  a  region  scarce  of  prey 
To  gorge  the  flesh  of  lambs  or  yeanling  kids 
On  hills  where  flocks  are  fed,  flies  toward  the  springs 
Of  Ganges  or  Hydaspes,  Indian  streams  ;  438 

But  in  his  way  lights  on  the  barren  plains 
Of  Sericana,  where  Chineses  drive 
With  sails  and  wind  their  cany  waggons  light : 
So  on  this  windy  sea  of  land  the  fiend  «o 

"Walk'd  up  and  down  alone,  bent  on  his  prey  ; 
Alone,  for  other  creature  in  this  place 
Living  or  lifeless  to  be  found  was  none ; 
None  yet,  but  store  hereafter  from  the  earth 
Up  hither  like  aerial  vapours  flew  445 

Of  aU  things  transitory  and  vain,  when  sin 
With  vanity  had  fiU'd  the  works  of  men : 
Both  all  things  vain,  and  all  who  in  vain  things 
Built  their  fond  hopes  of  glory  or  lasting  fame, 
Or  happiness  in  this  or  th'  other  life.  450 

All  who  have  their  reward  on  earth,  the  fruits 
Of  painful  superstition  and  blind  zeal, 
Naught  seeking  but  the  praise  of  men,  here  find 
Fit  retribution,  empty  as  their  deeds  : 
All  th'  unaccomplish'd  works  of  nature's  hand,  453 

488  Chineses]  See  Hudibras,  iii.  1.  707. 

'  For  though  Chineses  go  to  bed. 


BOOK    III.  99 

Abortive,  monstrous,  or  unkindly  mix'd, 

Dissolv'd  on  earth,  fleet  hither,  and  in  vain, 

Till  final  dissolution,  wander  here, 

Not  in  the  neighb'ring^moon,  as  some  have  dream'd. 

Those  argent  fields  more  likely  habitants,  «o 

Translated  saints,  or  middle  spirits  hold 

Betwixt  th'  angelical  and  human  kind. 

Hither  of  ill-join'd  sons  and  daughters  born 

First  from  the  ancient  world  those  giants  came 

With  many  a  vain  exploit,  though  then  renown'd : 

The  builders  next  of  Babel  on  the  plain 

Of  Sennaar,  and  still  with  vain  design 

New  Babels,  had  they  wherewithal,  would  build  : 

Others  came  single  ;  he  who  to  be  deem'd 

A  God  leap'd  fondly  into  ^tna  flames,  «o 

Empedocles,  and  he  who  to  enjoy 

Plato's  Elysium  leap'd  into  the  sea, 

Cleombrotus,  and  many  more  too  long. 


459  nwon]    He  means  Ariosto  Or.  Fur.  c.  xxxiv.  st.  70. 

Newton. 
473  too  bng]   Bentley  thinks  that  a  line  is  here  omitted  ; 
and  Dr.  Pearce  agrees  with  him :  but  it  does  not  appear  to 
me  necessary.    I  would  read  the  verse 

'  Cleombrotus,  and  many  more  (too  long:) 
still  I  think  the  passage  would  read  better  thus  transposed; 
'  Cleombrotus  and  many  more,  too  long.' 
Here  Pilgrims  roam  that  stray'd  so  far  to  seek 


Or  in  Franciscan  think  to  pass  disguis'd: 
Embryos,  and  idiots,  eremites  and  friars, 
White,  black,  and  grey,  with  all  their  trumpery. 


100  PARADISE    LOST. 

Embryoes  and  idiots,  eremits  and  friars, 

White,  black,  and  grey,  with  all  their  trumpery.  475 

Here  pilgrims  roam,  that  stray'd  so  far  to  seek 

In  Golgotha  him  dead,  who  lives  in  heaven  ; 

And  they  who,  to  be  sure  of  paradise, 

Dying  put  on  the  weeds  of  Dominic, 

Or  in  Franciscan  think  to  pass  disguis'd.  48o 

They  pass  the  planets  seven,  and  pass  the  fix'd. 

And  that  crystalline  sphere  whose  balance  weighs 

The  trepidation  talk'd,  and  that  first  mov'd  : 

And  now  Saint  Peter  at  heaven's  wicket  seems 

To  wait  them  with  his  keys,  and  now  at  foot      435 

Of  heaven's  ascent  they  lift  their  feet,  when,  lo  ! 

A  violent  cross  wind  from  either  coast 

Blows  them  transverse  ten  thousand  leagues  awry 

Into  the  devious  air :  then  might  ye  see 

Cowls,  hoods,  and  habits  with  their  wearers  tost  490 

And  flutter'd  into  rags  ;  then  reliques,  beads, 

Indulgences,  dispenses,  pardons,  bulls. 

The  sport  of  winds  :  all  these  upwhirl'd  aloft 

Fly  o'er  the  backside  of  the  world  far  off, 

Into  a  limbo  large  and  broad,  since  call'd  495 

The  Paradise  of  fools,  to  few  unknown 

Long  after,  now  unpeopled,  and  untrod. 

All  this  dark  globe  the  fiend  found  as  he  pass'd, 

And  long  he  wander'd,  till  at  last  a  gleam 

475  White]  Carmelites,  Dominicans,  and  Franciscans.  So 
Ariosto  Orl.  Fur.  xiv.  68.  'Frati,  bianchi,  neri,  e  bigi.' 
[d.    xliii.  St.  175.     Todd. 

498  ^port]  Virg.  Mn.  vi.  75.     '  Ludibria  ventis.'     Hume. 


BOOK   III.  101 

Of  dawning  light  turn'd  thitherward  in  haste       mo 

His  travel'd  steps  ;  far  distant  he  descries, 

Ascending  by  degrees  magnificent 

Up  to  the  wall  of  heaven,  a  structure  high, 

At  top  whereof,  but  far  more  rich,  appear'd 

The  work  as  of  a  kingly  palace  gate,  sos 

With  frontispiece  of  diamond  and  gold 

Imbellish'd  ;  thick  with  sparkling  orient  gems 

The  portal  shone,  inimitable  on  earth 

By  model  or  by  shading  pencil  drawn. 

The  stairs  were  such  as  whereon  Jacob  saw       sw 

Angels  ascending  and  descending,  bands 

Of  guardians  bright,  when  he  from  Esau  fled 

To  Padan-Aram  in  the  field  of  Luz, 

Dreaming  by  night  under  the  open  sky, 

And  waking  cried.   This  is  the  gate  of  heaven.     515 

Each  stair  mysteriously  was  meant,  nor  stood 

There  always,  but  drawn  up  to  heaven  sometimes 

Viewless,  and  underneath  a  bright  sea  fiow'd 

Of  jasper,  or  of  liquid  pearl,  whereon 

Who  after  came  from  earth  sailing  arriv'd,         520 

Wafted  by  angels,  or  flew  o'er  the  lake. 

Rapt  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  fiery  steeds. 

The  stairs  were  then  let  down,  whether  to  dare 

The  fiend  by  easy  ascent,  or  aggravate 

His  sad  exclusion  from  the  doors  of  bliss :  ss 

Direct  agamst  which  open'd  from  beneath, 


607  orient]  Petrarch  Trionfo  della  morte,  ii.    'Di  gemme 
orientali  incoronata.'     Todd. 


LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  GAliFORNIA 

Rivr*:s:oE 


102  PARADISE    LOST. 

Just  o'er  the  blissful  seat  of  paradise, 

A  passage  down  to  th'  earth,  a  passage  wide, 

Wider  by  far  than  that  of  after-times 

Over  mount  Sion,  and  though  that  were  large     530 

Over  the  Promis'd  Land  to  God  so  dear, 

By  which,  to  visit  oft  those  happy  tribes, 

On  high  behests  his  angels  to  and  fro 

Pass'd  frequent,  and  his  eye  with  choice  regard, 

From  Paneas,  the  fount  of  Jordan's  flood,  535 

To  Beersaba,  where  the  Holy  Land 

Borders  on  Egypt  and  the  Arabian  shore : 

So  wide  the  op'ning  seem'd,  where  bounds  were  set 

To  darkness,  such  as  bound  the  ocean  wave. 

Satan  from  hence  now  on  the  lower  stair,  540 

That  scal'd  by  steps  of  gold  to  heaven-gate, 

Looks  down  with  wonder  at  the  sudden  view 

Of  all  this  world  at  once.     As  when  a  scout 

Through  dark  and  desert  ways  with  peril  gone 

All  night,  at  last  by  break  of  cheerful  dawn       545 

Obtains  the  brow  of  some  high-climbing  hill. 

Which  to  his  eye  discovers  unaware 

The  goodly  prospect  of  some  foreign  land 

First-seen,  or  some  renown'd  metropohs, 

With  glistening  spires  and  pinnacles  adorn'd      sso 

Which  now  the  rising  sun  gilds  with  his  beams : 

Such  wonder  seiz'd,  though  after  heaven  seen, 

The  spirit  malign ;  but  much  more  envy  seiz'd 

646  climbing']  Drayton's  Barons  Warres,  c.  ii.  st.  14. 
'  There  riseth  up  an  msie  diinbing  hUV     Todd. 


BOOK  in.  103 

At  sight  of  all  this  world  beheld  so  fair. 
Round  he  surveys,  and  well  might,  where  he  stood 
So  high  above  the  circling  canopy  556 

Of  night's  extended  shade,  from  eastern  point 
Of  Libra  to  the  fleecy  star  that  bears 
Andromeda  far  off  Atlantic  seas 
Beyond  th'  horizon  :  then  from  pole  to  pole       seo 
He  views  in  breadth,  and  without  longer  pause 
Down  right  into  the  world's  first  region  throws 
His  flight  precipitant,  and  winds  with  ease 
Through  the  pure  marble  air  his  oblique  way 
Amongst  innumerable  stars,  that  shone  565 

Stars  distant,  but  nigh  hand  seem'd  other  worlds, 
Or  other  worlds  they  seem'd,  or  happy  isles, 
Like  those  Hesperian  gardens  fam'd  of  old, 
Fortunate  fields,  and  groves,  and  flow'ry  vales. 
Thrice  happy  isles  ;  but  who  dwelt  happy  there  sra 
He  stay'd  not  to  enquire :  above  them  all 
The  golden  sun  in  splendor  likest  heaven 
AUur'd  his  eye :  thither  his  course  he  bends 
Through  the  calm  firmament ;  but  up  or  down, 
By  centre  or  eccentric,  hard  to  tell,  srs 

Or  longitude,  where  the  great  luminary, 

554  At  sight]  Quod  tandem  spectaculum  fore  pntamus,  cum 
iota7n  terram  contuen  licebit  V     Cic.  Tusc.  Disp.  i.  19. 
664  marble  air]  '  Strikes  thro'  the  marble  skies.' 

See  Marim's  SI.  of  the  Innocents,  p.  75.     Transl. 
664  oblique]  Drayton  uses  this  word  with  the  accent  on  the 
first  syllable.     Polyllb.  Song  xvi. 
*  Then  in  his  dblique  course,  the  lusty  straggling  street.' 

Todd. 


104  PARADISE    LOST. 

Aloof  the  vulgar  constellations  thick, 
That  from  his  lordly  eye  keep  distance  due, 
Dispenses  light  from  far ;  they  as  they  move 
Their  starry  dance  in  numbers  that  compute      sso 
Days,  months,  and  years,  towards  his  all-cheering 

lamp 
Turn  swift  their  various  motions,  or  are  turn'd 
By  his  magnetic  beam,  that  gently  warms 
The  universe,  and  to  each  inward  part 
With  gentle  penetration,  though  unseen,  sas 

Shoots  invisible  virtue  even  to  the  deep ; 
So  wond'rously  was  set  his  station  bright. 
There  lands  the  fiend,  a  spot  like  which  perhaps 
Astronomer  in  the  sun's  lucent  orb 
Through  his  glaz'd  optic  tube  yet  never  saw.      590 
The  place  he  found  beyond  expression  bright, 
Compar'd  with  aught  on  earth,  metal  or  stone ; 
Not  all  parts  like,  but  all  alike  inform'd 
With  radiant  light,  as  glowing  iron  with  fire  ; 
If  metal,  part  seem'd  gold,  part  silver  clear ;       ess 
If  stone,  carbuncle  most  or  chrysolite. 
Ruby  or  topaz,  to  the  twelve  that  shone 
In  Aaron's  breast-plate,  and  a  stone  besides 
Imagin'd  rather  oft  than  elsewhere  seen, 

692  metal]  In  the  first  editions  '  medal.' 

691  to]   Doctor  Pearce  had  an  ingenious  friend  who  pro- 
posed to  read 

'  Rubie,  or  Topaz,  two  o'  th'  twelve  that  shone.' 
How  would  the  Doctor  profess  to  pronounce  his  line  ? 

Fenton  reads  '  or  the  twelve  that  shone.' 


BOOK   III. 


105 


That  stoue,  or  like  to  that  which  here  below      eoo 
Philosophers  in  vain  so  long  have  sought, 
In  vain,  though  by  their  powerful  art  they  bind 
Volatil  Hermes,  and  call  up  unbound 
In  various  shapes  old  Proteus  from  the  sea, 
Drain'd  through  a  limbec  to  his  native  form.      eos 
What  wonder  then  if  fields  and  regions  here 
Breathe  forth  elixir  pure,  and  rivers  run 
Potable  gold,  when  with  one  virtuous  touch 
Th'  arch-chimic  sun  so  far  from  us  remote 
Produces  with  terrestrial  humor  mix'd  8w> 

Here  in  the  dark  so  many  precious  things 
Of  colour  glorious  and  effect  so  rare  ? 
Here  matter  new  to  gaze  the  devil  met 
Undazzled,  far  and  wide  his  eye  commands, 
For  sight  no  obstacle  found  here,  nor  shade,      6« 
But  all  sun-shine ;  as  when  his  beams  at  noon 
Culminate  from  th'  Equator,  as  they  now 
Shot  upward  still  direct,  whence  no  way  round 
Shadow  from  body  opaque  can  fall,  and  the  air, 
No  where  so  clear,  sharpen'd  his  visual  ray        e* 
To  objects  distant  far,  whereby  he  soon 
Saw  within  ken  a  glorious  angel  stand. 
The  same  whom  John  saw  also  in  the  sun : 
His  back  was  turn'd,  but  not  his  brightness  hid ; 

605  limbec]  See  Sylvester's  Du  Bartas,  p.  85. 

'  Fire  that  in  limbec  of  pure  thoughts  divine 
Doth  purge  our  thoughts.' 
622  Jcen]  See  Greene's  "Never  too  late."    'I  might  see  in 
my  ken.'     Todd. 


106  PARADISE   LOST. 

Of  beaming  sunny  rays,  a  golden  tiar  625 

Circl'd  bis  head,  nor  less  bis  locks  behind 
Illustrious  on  his  shoulders  fledge  with  wings 
Lay  waving  round ;  on  some  great  charge  employ'd 
He  seem'd,  or  fix'd  in  cogitation  deep. 
Glad  was  the  spirit  impure,  as  now  in  hope        eso 
To  find  who  might  direct  his  wand'ring  flight 
To  Paradise,  the  happy  seat  of  man. 
His  journey's  end,  and  our  beginning  woe. 
But  first  be  casts  to  change  his  proper  shape. 
Which  else  might  work  him  danger  or  delay :    eas 
And  now  a  stripling  cherub  he  appears. 
Not  of  the  prime,  yet  such  as  in  his  face 
Youth  smil'd  celestial,  and  to  every  limb 
Suitable  grace  diffus'd,  so  well  he  feign'd : 
Under  a  coronet  bis  flowing  hair  s«t 

In  curls  on  either  cheek  play'd ;  wings  he  wore 
Of  many  a  colour'd  plume  sprinkled  with  gold ; 
His  habit  fit  for  speed  succinct,  and  held 
Before  his  decent  steps  a  silver  wand. 
He  drew  not  nigh  unheard,  the  angel  bright,      ets 
E'er  he  drew  nigh,  his  radiant  visage  turn'd, 
Admonish'd  by  his  ear,  and  straight  was  known 
Th'  arch-angel  Uriel,  one  of  the  seven 
Who  in  God's  presence  nearest  to  his  throne 
Stand  ready  at  command,  and  are  his  eyes         eso 

*42  many  a  colour''d]  '  Versicoloribus  alls.' 

Vi7-gilii  (htalecta,  vi.  9. 
W8  succinct]  Orl.  Fur.  c.  xxvii.  st.  52. 

'  In  ahito  succirUa  era  Marfisa.'     Todd. 


BOOK  III.  107 

That  run  through  all  tlie  heavens,  or  down  to  th'earth 
Bear  his  swift  errands,  over  moist  and  diy, 
O'er  sea  and  land :  him  Satan  thus  accosts. 

Uriel,  for  thou  of  those  seven  spirits  that  stand 
In  sight  of  God's  high  throne,  gloriously  bright. 
The  first  art  wont  his  gi-eat  authentic  will  aw 

Interpreter  through  highest  heaven  to  bring. 
Where  all  his  sons  thy  embassy  attend  ; 
And  here  art  likehest  by  supreme  decree 
Like  honour  to  obtain,  and  as  his  eye  «« 

To  visit  oft  this  new  creation  round ; 
Unspeakable  desire  to  see,  and  know 
All  these  his  wondrous  works,  but  chiefly  man, 
His  chief  delight  and  favour,  him  for  whom 
All  these  his  works  so  wondrous  he  ordain' d,     ses 
Hath  brought  me  from  the  choirs  of  cherubim 
Alone  thus  wand'ring.     Brightest  seraph,  tell 
In  which  of  all  these  shining  orbs  hath  man 
His  fixed  seat,  or  fixed  seat  hath  none. 
But  all  these  shining  orbs  his  choice  to  dwell ;   67o 
That  I  may  find  him,  and,  with  secret  gaze 
Or  open  admiration,  him  behold. 
On  whom  the  great  Creator  hath  bestow'd 
Worlds,  and  on  whom  hath  all  these  graces  pour'd ; 
That  both  in  him  and  all  things,  as  is  meet,        «» 
The  universal  Maker  we  may  praise  ; 
Who  justly  hath  driv'n  out  his  rebel  foes 
To  deepest  hell,  and  to  repair  that  loss 

Bfs  that]  Tickell  reads  '  their  loss,'   and  is    followed    by 
Fenton  and  Bentley.     Todd. 


108  PARADISE   LOST. 

Created  this  new  happy  race  of  men 

To  serve  him  better :  wise  are  all  his  ways.       sso 

So  spake  the  false  dissembler  unperceiv'd; 
For  neither  man  nor  angel  can  discern 
Hypocrisy,  the  only  evil  that  walks 
Invisible,  except  to  God  alone, 
By  his  permissive  will,  through  heaven  and  earth  : 
And  oft,  though  wisdom  wake,  suspicion  sleeps 
At  wisdom's  gate,  and  to  simplicity 
Resigns  her  charge,  while  goodness  thinks  no  iU 
Where  no  ill  seems ;  which  now  for  once  beguil'd 
Uriel,  though  regent  of  the  sun,  and  held  eso 

The  sharpest  sighted  spirit  of  aU  in  heaven : 
Who  to  the  fraudulent  imposter  foul 
In  his  uprightness  answer  thus  return'd. 

Fair  angel,  thy  desire  which  tends  to  know 
The  works  of  God,  thereby  to  glorify  ess 

The  great  Work-master,  leads  to  no  excess 
That  reaches  blame,  but  rather  merits  praise 
The  more  it  seems  excess,  that  led  thee  hither 
From  thy  empyreal  mansion  thus  alone, 
To  witness  with  thine  eyes  what  some  perhaps  'oo 
Contented  with  report  hear  only  in  heaven  : 
For  wonderful  indeed  are  all  his  works. 
Pleasant  to  know,  and  worthiest  to  be  all 
Had  in  remembrance  always  with  delight : 
But  what  created  mind  can  comprehend  70s 

Their  number  or  the  wisdom  infinite 
That  brought  them  forth,  but  hid  their  causes  deep  ? 
I  saw,  when  at  his  word  the  formless  mass, 


BOOK   III.  109 

This  world's  material  mould,  came  to  a  heap : 
Confusion  heard  his  voice,  and  wild  uproar        "o 
Stood  rul'd,  stood  vast  infinitude  confin'd ; 
Till  at  his  second  bidding  darkness  fled, 
Light  shone,  and  order  from  disorder  sprung. 
Swift  to  their  several  quarters  hasted  then 
The  cumbrous  elements,  earth,  flood,  air,  fire,     tib 
And  this  ethereal  quintessence  of  heaven 
Flew  upward,  spirited  with  various  forms, 
That  roll'd  orbicular,  and  turn'd  to  stars 
Numberless,  as  thou  seest,  and  how  they  move  ; 
Each  had  his  place  appointed,  each  his  course,  720 
The  rest  in  circuit  walls  this  universe. 
Look  downward  on  that  globe  whose  hither  side 
"With  light  from  hence,  though  but  reflected,  shines ; 
That  place  is  Earth,  the  seat  of  man,  that  light 
His  day,  which  else  as  th'  other  hemisphere       725 
Night  would  invade,  but  there  the  neighbouring 
So  call  that  opposite  fair  star,  her  aid         [moon, 
Timely  interposes,  and  her  monthly  round 
Still  ending,  still  renewing,  through  mid  heav'n, 
With  borrow'd  light  her  countenance  triform      730 
Hence  fills  and  empties  to  enlighten  th'  earth, 
And  in  her  pale  dominion  checks  the  night. 
That  spot  to  which  I  point  is  Paradise, 
Adam's  abode,  those  lofty  shades  his  bower : 
Thy  way  thou  canst  not  miss,  me  mine  requires.  735 

710  heard]  '  Jussa  Dei  exsequitur  Tellus. 

A.  Eamsisi,  P.  Sacr.  ed.  Lauder,  i.  p.  4. 
716  this]  '  the '  in  Fenton's  and  Bentley's  ed.    Newton. 


110  PARADISE    LOST. 

Thus  said,  he  turn'd,  and  Satan  bowing  low, 
As  to  superior  spirits  is  wont  in  heaven. 
Where  honour  due  and  reverence  none  neglects, 
Took  leave,  and  toward  the  coast  of  Earth  beneath, 
Down  from  th'  ecliptic,  sped  with  hop'd  success,  740 
Throws  his  steep  flight  in  many  an  aery  wheel, 
Nor  stay'd,  till  on  Niphates'  top  he  lights. 


Ill 

PARADISE    LOST. 
BOOK  IV. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

Satan  now  in  prospect  of  Eden,  and  nigh  the  place  where 
he  naust  now  attempt  the  bold  enterprise  which  he  undertook 
alone  against  God  and  man,  faUs  into  many  doubts  with 
himself,  and  many  passions,  fear,  envy,  and  despair;  but  at 
length  confirms  himself  in  evil,  journeys  on  to  Paradise, 
whose  outward  prospect  and  situation  is  described,  overleaps 
the  bounds,  sits  in  the  shape  of  a  cormorant  on  the  Tree  of 
Life,  as  the  highest  in  the  garden,  to  look  about  him.  The 
garden  described;  Satan's  first  sight  of  Adam  and  Eve;  his 
wonder  at  their  excellent  form  and  happy  state,  but  with  re- 
solution to  work  their  fall ;  overhears  their  discourse,  thence 
gathers  that  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  was  forbidden  them  to 
eat  of,  under  penalty  of  death ;  and  thereon  intends  to  found 
his  temptation,  by  seducing  them  to  transgress:  then  leaves 
them  a  while,  to  know  further  of  their  state  by  some  other 
means.  Meanwhile  Uriel  descending  on  a  sunbeam  warns 
Gabriel,  who  had  in  charge  the  gate  of  Paradise,  that  some 
evil  spirit  had  escaped  the  deep,  and  past  at  noon  by  his 
sphere  in  the  shape  of  a  good  angel  down  to  Paradise,  disco- 
vered afterwards  by  his  furious  gestures  in  the  mount.  Ga- 
briel promises  to  find  him  ere  morning.  Night  coming  on, 
Adam  and  Eve  discourse  of  going  to  their  rest :  their  bower 
described;  their  evening  worship.  Gabriel  drawing  forth 
his  bands  of  nightwatch  to  walk  the  round  of  Paradise,  ap- 
points two  strong  angels  to  Adam's  bower,  lest  the  evil  spirit 
should  be  there  doing  some  harm  to  Adam  or  Eve  sleeping; 
there  they  find  him  at  the  ear  of  Eve,  tempting  her  in  a 
dream,  and  bring  him,  though  unwilling,  to  Gabriel;  by 
whom  questioned,  he  scornfully  answers,  prepares  resistance, 
but  hindered  by  a  sign  from  heaven  flies  out  of  Paradise. 


112  PARADISE   LOST. 

0  FOR  that  warning  voice,  which  he  who  saw 
Th'  Apocalypse,  heard  cry  in  heaven  aloud, 
Then  when  the  Dragon,  put  to  second  rout, 
Came  furious  down  to  be  reveng'd  on  men, 
Woe  to  the  inhabitants  on  earth  /  that  now,  & 

While  time  was,  our  first  parents  had  been  wam'd 
The  coming  of  their  secret  foe,  and  scap'd. 
Haply  so  scap'd  his  mortal  snare ;  for  now 
Satan,  now  first  inflam'd  with  rage,  came  down, 
The  tempter  ere  th'  accuser  of  mankind,  ><» 

To  wreak  on  innocent  frail  man  his  loss 
Of  that  first  battle,  and  his  flight  to  hell : 
Yet  not  rejoicing  in  his  speed,  though  bold. 
Far  ofi"  and  fearless,  nor  with  cause  to  boast, 
Begins  his  dire  attempt,  which,  nigh  the  birth     i» 
Now  roUing,  boils  in  his  tumultuous  breast, 
And  like  a  devilish  engine  back  recoils 


W  devilish]  '  Those  devilish  engines  fierie  fierce.' 

EusseWs  Battles  of  Leipsic,  1634,  4to. 
Spenser's  F.  Qu.  1.  7.  xiii. 

*  As  when  that  devilish  iron  engine,  wrought  in  deepest  hell. ' 
IT  recoils]  see  Haralet,  act  iii.  scene  iv. 

'  For  'tis  the  sport  to  have  the  engineer 
Hoist  with  his  own  petar.' 
And  Ansonii  Epigram,  Ixxii. 

'  Auctorem  ut  feriant  tela  retorta  suum.' 
and  Beaumont's  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn,  act  ii. 

'  Twas  he 
Gave  heat  unto  the  injury,  which  returned 
LilvC  a  petard  ill  lighted,  into  the  bosom 
Of  him  gave  fire  to't.' 


BOOK    IV.  113 

Upon  himself;  horror  and  doubt  distract 

His  troubled  thoughts,  and  from  the  bottom  stir 

The  hell  within  him,  for  within  him  hell  «> 

He  brings,  and  round  about  him,  nor  from  hell 

One  step  no  more  than  from  himself  can  fly 

By  change  of  place  :  now  conscience  wakes  despair 

That  slumber'd,  wakes  the  bitter  memory 

Of  what  he  was,  what  is,  and  what  must  be         as 

Worse;  of  worse  deeds  worse  sufferings  must  ensue. 

Sometimes  towards  Eden,  which  now  in  his  view 

Lay  pleasant,  his  griev'd  look  he  fixes  sad ; 

Sometimes  towards  heaven  and  the  full-blazing  sun, 

Which  now  sat  high  in  his  meridian  tower :         so 

Then,  much  revolving,  thus  in  sighs  began. 

O  thou  that,  with  surpassing  glory  crown'd, 
Look'st  from  thy  sole  dominion  like  the  God 
Of  this  new  world,  at  whose  sight  all  the  stars 
Hide  their  diminish'd  heads,  to  thee  I  call,  35 

But  with  no  friendly  voice,  and  add  thy  name 

0  Sun,  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  beams, 
That  bring  to  my  remembrance  from  what  state 

1  fell,  how  glorious  once  above  thy  sphere ; 

Till  pride  and  worse  ambition  threw  me  down,  40 
Warring  in  Heaven  against  Heaven's  matchless 

King. 
Ah,  wherefore  !  he  deserv'd  no  such  return 

21  nor  from  hell]  v.  Fairfax's  Tasso,  c.  xii.  st.  77. 
'  Swift  from  myself  I  run,  myself  I  fear, 
Yet  still  my  heU  within  myself  I  bear.'     Todd. 
80  iower\  Virg.  Culex,  ver.  41. 

'  Igneus  aetliereas  jam  sol  penetrarat  in  arces.    Richardaon 
VOL.   I.  8 


114  PAEADISE   LOST. 

From  me,  whom  he  created  what  I  was 

In  that  bright  eminence,  and  with  his  good 

Upbraided  none  ;  nor  was  his  service  hard.         4S 

What  could  be  less  than  to  afford  him  praise, 

The  easiest  recompence,  and  pay  him  thanks, 

How  due !  yet  all  his  good  prov'd  ill  in  me. 

And  wrought  but  malice  ;  lifted  up  so  high 

I  sdein'd  subjection,  and  thought  one  step  higher  so 

Would  set  me  highest,  and  in  a  moment  quit 

The  debt  immense  of  endless  gratitude. 

So  burthensome,  still  paying,  still  to  owe ; 

Forgetful  what  from  him  I  still  receiv'd, 

And  understood  not  that  a  grateful  mind  ss 

By  owing  owes  not,  but  still  pays,  at  once 

Indebted  and  discharg'd ;  what  burden  then  ? 

O  had  his  powerful  destiny  ordain'd 

Me  some  inferior  angel,  I  had  stood 

Then  happy  ;  no  unbounded  hope  had  rais'd       so 

Ambition  !  Yet  why  not  ?  some  other  power 

As  great  might  have  aspir'd,  and  me  though  mean 

Drawn  to  his  part ;  but  other  powers  as  great 

Fell  not,  but  stand  unshaken,  from  within 

Or  from  without,  to  all  temptations  arm'd.  es 

Hadst  thou  the  same  free  will  and  power  to  stand  ? 

Thou  hadst:  whom  hast  thou  then  or  what  to  accuse, 

50  sdein''d]  Drayton's  Moses'  Birth,  B.  I. 

'  Which  though  it  sdaind  the  pleasdnesse  to  confesse.' 

and  Fairfax's  Tasso,  ver.  xx.  128.    '  He  sdeignful  eies.'    Todd. 
63  stiU paying]  '  Still  paying,  ne'er  discharged.' 

V.  Bailowe's  Theophila,  p.  29. 


BOOK    IV.  115 

But  Heaven's  free  love  dealt  equally  to  all  ? 

Be  then  his  love  accurs'd,  since  love  or  hate, 

To  me  alike,  it  deals  eternal  woe  :  n 

Nay  curs'd  be  thou ;  since  against  his  thy  will 

Chose  freely  what  it  now  so  justly  rues. 

Me  miserable !  which  way  shall  I  fly 

Infinite  wrath,  and  infinite  despair  ? 

Which  way  I  fly  is  hell ;  myself  am  hell ;  75 

And  in  the  lowest  deep  a  lower  deep 

Still  threat'ning  to  devour  me  opens  wide ; 

To  which  the  hell  I  suffer  seems  a  heaven. 

O  then  at  last  relent :  is  there  no  place 

Left  for  repentance,  none  for  pardon  left  ?  30 

None  left  but  by  submission ;  and  that  word 

Disdain  forbids  me,  and  my  dread  of  shame 

Among  the  spirits  beneath,  whom  I  seduc'd 

With  other  promises  and  other  vaunts 

Than  to  submit,  boasting  I  could  subdue  ss 

Th'  Omnipotent.     Ay  me,  they  little  know 

How  dearly  I  abide  that  boast  so  vain. 

Under  what  torments  inwardly  I  groan  ; 

While  they  adore  me  on  the  throne  of  Hell, 

With  diadem  and  sceptre  high  advane'd,  90 

The  lower  still  I  fall,  only  supreme 

In  misery ;  such  joy  ambition  finds. 

But  say  I  could  repent,  and  could  obtain 

By  act  of  grace  my  former  state ;  how  soon 

Would  highth  recal  high  thoughts,  how  soon  unsay 

What  feign'd  submission  swore  :  ease  would  recant 

Vows  made  in  pain,  as  violent  and  void ;  ^ 


116  PARADISE   LOST. 

For  never  can  true  reconcilement  grow 
Where  wounds  of  deadly  hate  have  pierc'd  so  deep-, 
Which  would  but  lead  me  to  a  worse  relapse     loo 
And  heavier  fall :  so  should  I  purchase  dear 
Short  intermission  bought  with  double  smart. 
This  knows  my  punisher ;  therefore  as  far 
From  granting  he,  as  I  from  begging  peace : 
All  hope  excluded  thus,  behold  in  stead  105 

Of  us  out-cast,  exil'd,  his  new  delight, 
Mankind,  created,  and  for  him  this  world. 
So  farewell  hope,  and  with  hope  farewell  fear, 
Farewell  remorse  :  all  good  to  me  is  lost ; 
Evil,  be  thou  my  good ;  by  thee  at  least  no 

Divided  empire  with  Heaven's  King  I  hold. 
By  thee,  and  more  than  half  perhaps  will  reign  ; 
As  man  ere  long  and  this  new  world  shall  know. 
Thus  while  he  spake,  each  passion  dimm'd  his 
face 
Thrice  chang'd  with  pale,  ire,  envy,  and  despair,  115 
Which  marr'd  his  borrow'd  visage,  and  betray'd 
Him  counterfeit,  if  any  eye  beheld : 
For  heav'nly  minds  from  such  distempers  foul 
Are  ever  clear.     Whereof  he  soon  aware 
Each  pertubation  smooth'd  with  outward  calm,    120 
Artificer  of  fraud ;  and  was  the  first 
That  practis'd  falsehood  under  saintly  shew, 
Deep  malice  to  conceal,  couch'd  with  revenge. 
Yet  not  enough  had  practis'd  to  deceive 
Uriel  once  warn'd ;  whose  eye  pursu'd  him  down  las 
The  way  he  went,  and  on  th'  Assyrian  mount 


BOOK    IV.  117 

Saw  him  disfigur'd,  more  tlian  could  befall 

Spirit  of  happy  sort :  his  gestures  fierce 

He  mark'd  and  mad  demeanour,  then  alone, 

As  he  suppos'd,  all  unobserv'd,  unseen.  iso 

So  on  he  fai'es,  and  to  the  border  comes 

Of  Eden,  where  delicious  Paradise, 

Now  neai'er,  crowns  with  her  enclosure  green. 

As  with  a  rural  mound,  the  champain  head 

Of  a  steep  wilderness,  whose  hairy  sides  i» 

With  thicket  overgrown,  grotesque  and  wUd, 

Access  deny'd  ;  and  over  head  up  grew 

Insuperable  highth  of  loftiest  shade. 

Cedar,  and  pine,  and  fir,  and  branching  palm, 

A  sylvan  scene,  and,  as  the  ranks  ascend  i4o 

Shade  above  shade,  a  woody  theatre 

Of  stateliest  view.     Yet  higher  than  their  tops 

The  verdurous  wall  of  paradise  up  sprung ; 

Which  to  our  general  sire  gave  prospect  large 

Into  his  nether  empire  neighbouring  round.        145 

And  higher  than  that  wall  a  circling  row 

Of  goodliest  trees  loaden  with  fau-est  fruit. 

Blossoms  and  fruits  at  once  of  golden  hue 

iss  shade]    'shaft,'  Bentl.  3f8.  and  again  ver.  141,  'Shaft 
above  shaft.' 

141  woody  theatre]  v.  Senecse  Troades,  ver.  1127. 

'  Erecta  medium  vallis  includens  locum, 
Crescit  theatri  more.' 

Virg.  ^n.  V.  288.  and  Solini  Polyhist.  c  xxxviii.  v.  Ly- 
cophr.     Cassandra,  ver.  600. 

•&£aTpoii6p(p(f)  kTuth. 


118  PARADISE    LOST. 

Appear'd  with  gay  enamel'd  colours  mixt : 
On  which  the  sun  more  glad  impress'd  his  beams,  is) 
Than  in  fair  evening  cloud,  or  humid  bow, 
When  God  hath  showr'd  the  earth.     So  lovely 

seem'd 
That  landscape.     And  of  pure  now  purer  air 
Meets  his  approach,  and  to  the  heart  inspires 
Vei'nal  delight  and  joy,  able  to  drive  iss 

All  sadness  but  despair :  now  gentle  gales 
Fanning  their  odoriferous  wings  dispense 
Native  perfumes,  and  whisper  whence  they  stole 
Those  balmy  spoils.     As  when  to  them  who  sail 
Beyond  the  Cape  of  Hope,  and  now  are  past     m 
Mozambic,  off  at  sea  north-east  winds  blow 
Sabean  odours  from  the  spicy  shore 

151  in]  Hume,  Bentley,  and  Warton  would  read  '  on  fair 
evening  cloud.' 

162  Sabean  odou7's]  See  Plin.  Nat.  Hist.  lib.  xii.  c.  42.  19. 
'  Magnique  Alexandri  classibus  AraMam  odore  primum  nun- 
tiatam  in  altum.'  Compare  a  passage  in  Ovington's  Voyage 
to  Surat,  p.  55  (1696).  '  We  were  pleased  with  the  prospect 
of  this  island,  because  we  had  been  long  strangers  to  such  a 
sight ;  and  it  gratified  us  with  the  fragrant  smells  which  were 
wafted  from  the  shore,  from  whence,  at  three  leagues  distance, 
we  scented  the  odours  of  flowers  and  fresh  herbs ;  and  what 
is  very  observable,  when  after  a^^  tedious  stretch  at  sea,  we 
have  deemed  ourselves  to  be  near  land  by  our  observation 
and  course,  our  smell  in  dark  and  misty  weather  has  outdone 
the  acuteness  of  our  sight,  and  we  have  discovered  land  by 
the  fresh  smells,  before  we  discovered  it  with  our  eyes.  See 
also  Davenport's  '  City  Night-cap,'  act  v. 

'  The  Indian  winds 

That  blow  ofif  from  the  coast,  and  cheer  the  sailor 
With  the  sweet  savour  of  their  spices,  want 
The  dehght  that  flows  in  thee.' 


BOOK    IV.  119 

Of  Arable  the  blest,  with  such  delay  [league 

"Well  pleas'd  they  slack  their  course,  and  many  a 
Cheer'd  with  the  grateful  smell  old  Ocean  smiles  : 
So  entertain'd  those  odorous  sweets  the  fiend 
Who  came  their  bane,  though  with  them  better 

pleas'd 
Than  Asmodeus  with  the  fishy  fume, 
That  drove  him,  though  enamour'd,  from  the  spouse 
Of  Tobit's  son,  and  with  a  vengeance  sent  no 

From  Media  post  to  JEgypt,  there  fast  bound. 
Now  to  th'  ascent  of  that  steep  savage  hill 
Satan  had  joumied  on,  pensive  and  slow  ; 
But  further  way  found  none,  so  thick  entwin'd. 
As  one  continu'd  brake,  the  undergrowth  175 

Of  shi'ubs  and  tangling  bushes  had  perplex'd 
All  path  of  man  or  beast  that  past  that  way. 
One  gate  there  only  was,  and  that  look'd  east 
On  th'  other  side :  which  when  th'  arch-felon  saw. 
Due  entrance  he  disdain'd,  and  in  contempt        iso 
At  one  slight  bound  high  overleap'd  all  bound 
Of  hill  or  highest  wall,  and  sheer  within 
Lights  on  his  feet.     As  when  a  prowling  wolf. 
Whom  hunger  drives  to  seek  new  haunt  for  prey, 
Watching  where  shepherds  pen  their  flocks  at  eve 
In  hurdled  cotes  amid  the  field  secure,  las 

Leaps  o'er  the  fence  with  ease  into  the  fold : 
Or  as  a  thief  bent  to  unhoard  the  cash 
Of  some  rich  burgher,  whose  substantial  doors, 

188  wolfl  '  Keen  as  the  Evening  wolf.' 

Benlowe^s  TheopMla,  p.  44. 


120  PARADISE   LOST. 

Cross-barr'd  and  bolted  fast,  fear  no  assault,       »» 

In  at  the  window  climbs,  or  o'er  the  tiles  : 

So  clomb  this  first  grand  thief  into  God's  fold ; 

So  since  into  his  church  lewd  hirelings  climb. 

Thence  up  he  flew,  and  on  the  Tree  of  Life, 

The  middle  tree  and  highest  there  that  grew,     im 

Sat  like  a  cormorant ;  yet  not  true  life 

Thereby  regain'd,  but  sat  devising  death 

To  them  who  liv'd  ;  nor  on  the  virtue  thought 

Of  that  life-giving  plant,  but  only  us'd 

For  prospect,  what  weU  us'd  had  been  the  pledge 

Of  immortality.     So  little  knows  soi 

Any,  but  God  alone,  to  value  right 

The  good  before  him,  but  perverts  best  things 

To  worst  abuse,  or  to  their  meanest  use. 

Beneath  him  with  new  wonder  now  he  views     205 

To  all  delight  of  human  sense  expos'd 

In  narrow  room  nature's  whole  wealth,  yea  more, 

A  heaven  on  earth  :  for  blissful  paradise 

Of  God  the  garden  was,  by  him  in  the  east 

Of  Eden  planted  ;  Eden  stretch'd  her  line         aw 

From  Auran  eastward  to  the  royal  tow'rs 

Of  great  Seleucia,  built  by  Grecian  kings, 

Or  where  the  sons  of  Eden  long  before 

190  Oross-barr'd]  '  Cross-barr'd  and  double  lockt.' 

Heyivood's  Hierarckie,  p.  510,  folio,  (1635). 

191  In  at  the  window]   v.  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen,  lib.  i.  c 
3.  ver.  17. 

'  He  was  to  weet  a  stout  and  sturdy  thief, 

Then  he  by  cunning  slights  in  at  the  window  crept.' 


BOOK    IV.  121 

Dwelt  in  Telassar.     In  this  pleasant  soil 
His  far  more  pleasant  garden  God  ordain'd  ;      215 
Out  of  the  fertile  gi'ound  he  caus'd  to  grow 
All  trees  of  noblest  kind  for  sight,  smeU,  taste  ; 
And  all  amid  them  stood  the  Tree  of  Life, 
High  eminent,  blooming  ambrosial  fruit 
Of  vegetable  gold,  and  next  to  Life  aao 

Our  death  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  grew  fast  by. 
Knowledge  of  good  bought  dear  by  knowing  ill. 
Southward  through  Eden  went  a  river  large, 
Nor  chang'd  his  course,  but  through  the  shaggy  hill 
Pass'd  underneath  ingulf'd  ;  for  God  had  thrown 
That  mountain  as  his  garden  mould,  high  rais'd 
Upon  the  rapid  current,  which,  through  veins 
Of  porous  earth  with  kindly  thirst  up  drawn, 
Rose  a  fresh  fountain,  and  with  many  a  rill 
Water'd  the  garden  ;  thence  united  fell  230 

Down  the  steep  glade,  and  met  the  nether  flood, 
Which  from  his  darksome  passage  now  appears  ; 
And  now  divided  into  four  main  streams 
Runs  diverse,  wand'ring  many  a  famous  realm 
And  country,  whereof  here  needs  no  account ;  23s 
But  rather  to  tell  how,  if  art  could  tell, 
How  from  that  saphire  fount  the  crisped  brooks. 
Rolling  on  orient  pearl  and  sands  of  gold, 

^■^  crisped  brooks] 

'  Tremuloque  alarum  remige  crispat 
Fluctusque  fluviosque  maris.' 

A.  Bamscm  Poem.  Sacr.  ed.  Lauder,  i.  p.  3. 
888  orieiU  pearl]    See  Sir  D.  Lindsay,  ed.  Chalmers,  ii.  327. 
'  Lyke  orient  perils.' 


122  PARADISE    LOST. 

With  mazy  ei'ror  under  pendant  shades 
Ran  nectar,  visiting  each  plant,  and  fed  2m 

Flow'rs  worthy  of  paradise,  which  not  nice  art 
In  beds  and  curious  knots,  but  nature  boon 
Pour'd  forth  profuse  on  hill,  and  dale,  and  plain. 
Both  where  the  morning  sun  first  warmly  smote 
The  open  field,  and  where  the  unpierc'd  shade  24s 
Imbrown'd  the  noontide  bowers.     Thus  was  this 
A  happy  rural  seat  of  various  view  :  [place 

Groves  whose  rich  trees  wept  odorous  gums  and 

balm. 
Others  whose  fruit  burnish'd  with  golden  rind 
Hung  amiable,  Hesperian  fables  true,  250 

If  true,  here  only,  and  of  dehcious  taste. 
Betwixt  them  lawns,  or  level  downs,  and  flocks 
Grazing  the  tender  herb,  were  interpos'd, 
Or  palmy  liillock,  or  the  flow'ry  lap 
Of  some  irriguous  valley  spread  her  store,         255 
Flow'rs  of  all  hue,  and  without  thorn  the  rose. 

And  Shakespeare's  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  i.  5.     '  He  kissed 
the  last  of  many  doubled  kisses,  this  orient  pearl.' 

Orient  pearl  was  esteemed  the  most  valuable.  See  Don 
Quixote  (Shelton's  Transl.  vol.  iv.  p.  64.)  'She  wept  not 
tears,  but  seed  peai'l,  or  morning  dew :  and  he  thought  higher, 
that  they  were  Uke  oriental  pearls.'' 

244  smotel  Val.  Flacc.  I.  496.  '  Percussaque  sole  scuta.' 
Orl.  Fur.  c.  viii.  st.  xx.  ^Percote  il  sol  ardente  il  vicin  colle.' 
And  Psalm  (Old  Transl.)  cxxi.  6.  '  The  sun  shall  not  smile 
thee  by  day.'     Todd. 

250  fables]  Apples.     Bentl.  MS. 

255  irrigtiaus]  Hor.  Sat.  ii.  4.  16.  '■Irrigvo  nihil  est 
elutius  horto.'    Eume. 


BOOK    IV. 


123 


Another  side,  umbrageous  grots  and  caves 
Of  cool  recess,  o'er  which  the  mantling  vine 
Lays  forth  her  purple  grape,  and  gently  creeps 
Luxuriant :  mean  while  murmuring  waters  fall  26u 
Down  the  slope  hills,  dispers'd,  or  in  a  lake. 
That  to  the  fringed  bank  with  myrtle  crown'd 
Her  crystal  mirror  holds,  unite  their  streams. 
The  birds  their  quire  apply ;  airs,  vernal  airs, 
Breathing  the  smell  of  field  and  grove,  attune    263 
The  trembling  leaves,  while  universal  Pan, 
Knit  with  the  Gx'aces  and  the  Hours  in  dance. 
Led  on  th'  eternal  spring.     Not  that  fair  field 
Of  Enna,  where  Proserpine  gathering  flowers. 
Herself  a  fairer  flower,  by  gloomy  Dis  27u 

Was  gather'd,  which  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain 
To  seek  her  through  the  world ;  nor  that  sweet  grove 
Of  Daphne  by  Orontes  and  th'  inspir'd 
Castalian  spring  might  with  this  paradise 
Of  Eden  strive  ;  nor  that  Nyseian  isle  275 

262  fringed]  See  Carew's  Poems,  p.  204. 
'  Silver  floods, 

From  your  channels  fring'd  with  flowers.' 
And  p.  119. 

'  With  various  trees  we  fringe,  the  waters'  brink.' 
264  apply\  Spens.  F.  Q.  iii.  1.  40. 

'  Sweet  birds  thereto  applide 
Their  dainty  layes'  &c.    Bowie. 
269  Proserpine]  With  the  same  accent  in  F.  Queen,  1.  li. 
2.     'And  sad  Proserpine's  wrath.'     Newton. 

273  Daphne  \  See  Wernsdorf.  Poet.  Minor,  vol.  vii.  p.  1105, 
V.  Capitolmi  vitam  M.  Antonmi  Philos.  c.  viii.  p.  44,  ed. 
Putmau. 


124  PARADISE    LOST. 

Girt  with  the  river  Triton,  where  old  Cham, 

Whom  Gentiles  Ammon  call  and  Lybian  Jove, 

Hid  Amalthea  and  her  florid  son 

Young  Bacchus  from  his  stepdame  Rhea's  eye  : 

Nor  where  Abassin  kings  their  issue  guard,       zso 

Mount  Amara,  though  this  by  some  suppos'd 

True  paradise,  under  the  Ethiop  line 

By  Nilus  head,  enclos'd  with  shining  rock, 

A  whole  day's  journey  high,  but  wide  remote 

From  this  Assyrian  garden,  where  the  fiend      285 

Saw  undelighted  all  delight,  all  kind 

Of  living  creatures  new  to  sight  and  strange. 

Two  of  far  nobler  shape  erect  and  tall. 
Godlike  erect,  with  native  honour  clad 
In  naked  majesty,  seem'd  lords  of  all,  zm 

And  worthy  seem'd  :  for  in  their  looks  divine 
The  image  of  their  glorious  Maker  shone. 
Truth,  wisdom,  sanctitude  severe  and  pure, 
Severe,  but  in  true  filial  freedom  plac'd, 
Whence  true  authority  in  men  :  though  both      235 
Not  equal,  as  their  sex  not  equal,  seem'd  ; 
For  contemplation  he  and  valour  form'd, 
For  softness  she  and  sweet  attractive  grace  ; 
Jle  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him. 

281  Amara]    See   Bancroft's  Epigrams   (1639),  4to.   p.  35 
(200).    '  Of  the  jEthiopian  mountain  Amara,'  and  Stradling'a 
Divine  Poems  (1625),  p.  27. 

'  The  famous  hill  Amara  to  this  clime 
Is  but  a  muddle  moore  of  dirt  and  slime.' 
299  He]  See  St.  Paul,  1.  Corinth,  xi.  7.    '  He  is  the  image 
and  glory  of  God ;  but  the  woman  is  the  glory  of  the  man. 


BOOK  IV.  125 

His  fair  large  front  and  eye  sublime  declar'd      aoo 
Absolute  rule  ;  and  hyacintlun  locks 
Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 
Clust'ring,  but  not  beneath  his  shoulders  broad : 
She  as  a  veil  down  to  the  slender  waist 
Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore  3<» 

Disshevel'd,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  wav'd 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils,  which  implied 
Subjection,  but  requir'd  with  gentle  sway, 
And  by  her  yielded,  by  him  best  receiv'd. 
Yielded  with  coy  submission,  modest  pride,        310 

For  the  man  is  not  of  the  woman,  but  the  woman  of  the  mto. 
Neither  was  the  man  created  for  the  woman,  but  the  woman 
for  the  man.'  This  passage  seems  to  justify  the  old  reading, 
'  God  in  him,'  and  rejects  Bentley  and  Pearce's  alteration, 
'  God  and  him.' 

301  hyacinihin]   See  Dionysii  Geograph.  ver.  1112.    Theo- 
criti  Idyll,  xviii.  2.     Longi  Pastor,  lib.  iv.  c.  13,  and  the  note 
in  Dyce's  ed.  of  Collins, '  Like  vernal  hyacinths  of  sullen  hue,* 
p.  180.     To  which  add  Nonni  Dionysiaca,  xvi.  ver.  81. 
'A'&pTjoac  6'  "XaKLV-dov  l6ov  Kvavoxpoa  xa'tTip/. 
304  as  a  vdl]  Carew's  Poem's,  p.  143. 

'  Whose  soft  hair, 

Fann'd  with  the  breath  of  gentle  air, 
O'erspreads  her  shoulders  like  a  tent. 
And  is  her  veil  and  ornament.' 

Spenser's  F.  Queen,  iv.  113. 

» Which  doft,  her  golden  looks  that  were  unbound 
Still  in  a  knot  unto  her  heeles  down  traced, 
And  like  a  silken  veil  in  compasse  round 
About  her  backe,  and  all  her  bodie  wound.' 
807  ^s  ihe  line]  See  Men-ick's  Trypliiodorus,  ver.  108. 
'  His  flowing  train  depends  with  artful  twine, 
Like  the  long  tendrils  of  the  curling  vine.' 


126  PARADISE    LOST. 

And  sweet  reluctant  amorous  delay. 
Nor  those  mysterious  parts  were  then  conceal'd ; 
Then  was  not  guilty  shame  ;  dishonest  shame 
Of  nature's  works,  honour  dishonourable, 
Sin-bred,  how  have  ye  troubled  all  mankind       3is 
With  shews  instead,  mere  shews  of  seeming  pure, 
And  banish'd  from  man's  life  his  happiest  life. 
Simplicity  and  spotless  innocence  ! 
So  pass'd  they  naked  on,  nor  shunn'd  the  sight 
Of  God  or  angel,  for  they  thought  no  ill :  320 

So  hand  in  hand  they  pass'd,  the  loveliest  pair 
That  ever  since  in  love's  embraces  met, 
Adam  the  goodliest  man  of  men  since  born 
His  sons,  the  fairest  of  her  daughters  Eve. 
Under  a  tuft  of  shade,  that  on  a  green  325 

Stood  whisp'ring  soft,  by  a  fresh  fountain  side 
They  sat  them  down ;  and  after  no  more  toil 
Of  their  sweet  gard'ning  labour  than  suffic'd 
To  recommend  cool  Zephyr,  and  made  ease 
More  easy,  wholesome  thirst  and  appetite  33a 

More  grateful,  to  their  supper  fruits  they  feU, 
Nectarine  fruits,  which  the  compliant  boughs 

816  ye]  Should  we  not  read  '  you  ?  '  For  what  is  he  speak- 
ing to  besides  Shame  ?    Newton. 

323  goodliest]  Ou  this  idiom,  borrowed  from  the  Greek,  re- 
fer to  Vigerus  de  Idiotismis,  p.  68,  and  Thucyd.  lib.  i.  c.  50. 
Naufiaxia  yap  avTij  °EX?ir]aL  npoc  'E/l/l)?vaf  veCrv  nTajdei  /ze- 
ylcTTi  6fi  t€iV  Ttpb  avTTj^  yeyevTjTac.  v.  Herman  ad  Euripid- 
Med.  ed.  Elmsley,  p.  67. 

332  compliant  boughs]  Compare  the  Sarcotis  of  Masenius, 
lib.  i.  p.  94,  ed.  Barbou: 


BOOK   IV.  127 

Yielded  them,  side-long  as  they  sat  recline 
On  the  soft  downy  bank  damask'd  with  flowers. 
The  savoury  pulp  they  chew,  and  in  the  rind,     335 
Still  as  they  thirsted,  scoop  the  brimming  stream  ; 
Nor  gentle  purpose  nor  endearing  smiles 
Wanted,  nor  youthful  dalliance,  as  beseems 
Fair  couple,  link'd  in  happy  nuptial  league 
Alone  as  they.     About  them  frisking  play'd       340 
All  beasts  of  th'  earth,  since  wild,  and  of  all  chase 
In  wood  or  wilderness,  forest  or  den  ; 
Sporting  the  lion  ramp'd,  and  in  his  paw 
Dandled  the  kid ;  bears,  tigers,  ounces,  pards, 
Gambol'd  before  them  ;  th'  unwieldly  elephant    34s 
To  make  them  mirth  us'd  all  his  might,  and  wreath'd 
His  Uthe  proboscis ;  close  the  serpent  sly 
Insinuating  wove  with  Gordian  twine 
His  braided  train,  and  of  his  fatal  guile 
Gave  proof  unheeded  ;  others  on  the  grass         350 
Couch'd,  and  now  fill'd  with  pasture  gazing  sat. 
Or  bedward  ruminating :  for  the  sun 
DecUn'd  was  hasting  now  with  prone  career 
To  th'  ocean  isles,  and  in  th'  ascending  scale 
Of  heav'n  the  stars  that  usher  evening  rose  :       355 

'  Hie  meusse  genialis  opes,  et  dapsilis  arbos 
Fructibus  inflexos,  foecundo  palmite,  ramos 
Cui'vat  ad  obsequium,  prsebetque  alimenta  petenti.' 
884  damash'd]  P.  Fletcher.  P.  Isl.  c.  xii.  1. 

'  Upon  the  flowrie  banks 
Where  various  powers  damaske  the  fragi'ant  seat.'      Todd. 
837  gentle]   Spens.  F.  Qu.  iii.  8.  14.     '  He  gan  make  geTiik 
purpose  to  his  dame.'     Thyer. 


128  PARADISE    LOST. 

Wlien  Satan  still  in  gaze,  as  first  he  stood, 
Scarce  thus  at  length  fail'd  speech  recover'd  sad. 
O  hell !  what  do  mine  eyes  with  grief  behold. 
Into  our  room  of  bliss  thus  high  advanc'd 
Creatures  of  other  mould,  earth-born  perhaps,  aeo 
Not  spirits,  yet  to  heavenly  spirits  bright 
Little  inferior ;  whom  my  thoughts  pursue 
With  wonder,  and  could  love,  so  lively  shines 
In  them  divine  resemblance,  and  such  grace 
The  hand  that  form'd  them  on  their  shape  hath 
pour'd !  385 

Ah  gentle  pair,  ye  little  think  how  nigh 
Your  change  approaches,  when  all  these  delights 
Will  vanish  and  deliver  ye  to  woe. 
More  woe,  the  more  your  taste  is  now  of  joy : 
Happy,  but  for  so  happy  ill  secur'd  siro 

Long  to  continue  ;  and  this  high  seat  your  heaven 
111  fenc'd  for  heaven  to  keep  out  such  a  foe 
As  now  i§  enter'd :  yet  no  purpos'd  foe 
To  you,  whom  I  could  pity  thus  forlorn. 
Though  I  unpitied.     League  with  you  I  seek,   375 
And  mutual  amity,  so  strait,  so  close, 
That  I  with  you  must  dwell,  or  you  with  me 
Henceforth  :  my  dwelling  haply  may  not  please, 

858  0  hell]   Compare  the  speech  of  Antitheus,  in  the  Sar- 
cotis,  at  the  sight  of  the  happiness  of  Sarcothea,  lib.  i.  p.  94. 

'  Viderat  Antitheus  niveam  per  gramina  nympham 
Errantem,  et  facilis  captantem  gaudia  ruris, 
Pascentemque  animum  jucunda  munere  vitae. 
Vidit,  et  indoluit  tantorum  herede  bononim,'  &c 


BOOK   IV.  129 

Like  this  fair  paradise,  your  sense ;  yet  such 

Accept  your  Maker's  work  ;  he  gave  it  me.       aao 

Which  I  as  freely  give  :  hell  shall  unfold 

To  entertain  you  two,  her  widest  gates. 

And  send  forth  all  her  kings :  there  will  be  room, 

Not  like  these  narrow  limits,  to  receive 

Your  numerous  offspring ;  if  no  better  place,     sss 

Thank  him  who  puts  me  loath  to  this  revenge 

On  you,  who  wrong  me  not,  for  him  who  wrong'd. 

And  should  I  at  your  harmless  innocence 

Melt,  as  I  do,  yet  public  reason  just. 

Honour  and  empire  with  revenge  enlarg'd,         390 

By  conquering  this  new  world,  compels  me  now 

To  do,  what  else,  though  damn'd,  I  should  abhor. 

So  spake  the  fiend,  and  with  necessity. 
The  tyrant's  plea,  excus'd  his  devilish  deeds. 
Then  from  his  lofty  stand  on  that  high  tree        aes 
Down  he  alights  among  the  sportful  herd 
Of  those  fourfooted  kinds,  himself  now  one, 
Now  other,  as  their  shape  serv'd  best  his  end 
Nearer  to  view  his  prey,  and  unespy'd  399 

To  mark  what  of  their  state  he  more  might  learn 
By  word  or  action  mark'd :  about  them  round 
A  lion  now  he  stalks  with  fiery  glare, 
Then  as  a  tiger,  who  by  chance  hath  spy'd 
In  some  purlieu  two  gentle  fawns  at  play. 
Straight  couches  close,  then  rising  changes  oft  los 
His  couchant  watch,  as  one  who  chose  his  ground, 
Whence  rushing  he  might  surest  seize  them  both 
Grip'd  in  each  paw  :  when  Adam  first  of  men, 
VOL.   I.  9 


130  PARADISE   LOStI 

To  first  of  women  Eve  thus  moving  speech, 
Turn'd  him  all  ear  to  hear  new  utterance  flow. 

Sole  partner  and  sole  part  of  all  these  joys, 
Dearer  thy  self  than  all,  needs  must  the  Power 
That  made  us,  and  for  us  this  ample  world, 
Be  infinitely  good,  and  of  his  good 
As  liberal  and  free  as  infinite,  415 

That  rais'd  us  from  the  dust  and  plac'd  us  here 
In  all  this  happiness,  who  at  his  hand 
Have  nothing  merited,  nor  can  perform 
Aught  whereof  he  hath  need,  he  who  requires 
From  us  no  other  service  than  to  keep  lao 

This  one,  this  easy  charge,  of  all  the  trees 
In  paradise  that  bear  delicious  fruit 
So  various,  not  to  taste  that  only  Tree 
Of  Knowledge,  planted  by  the  Tree  of  Life ; 
So  near  grows  death  to  life ;  whate'er  death  is. 
Some  dreadful  thing  no  doubt ;  for  weU  thou  know'st 
God  hath  pronounc'd  it  death  to  taste  that  tree, 
The  only  sign  of  our  obedience  left 
Among  so  many  signs  of  power  and  rule 
Conferr'd  upon  us,  and  dominion  giv'n  430 

Over  all  other  creatures  that  possess 
Earth,  air,  and  sea.     Then  let  us  not  think  hard 
One  easy  prohibition,  who  enjoy 
Free  leave  so  large  to  all  things  else,  and  choice 
Unlimited  of  manifold  delights  :  «s 

But  let  us  ever  praise  him  and  extol 
His  bounty,  following  our  delightful  task       [ers ; 
To  prune  these  growing  plants,  and  tend  these  flow- 
Which  were  it  toilsome,  yet  with  thee  were  sweet. 


BOOK   IV.  131 

To  whom  thus  Eve  reply'd.     0  thou,  for  whom 
And  from  whom  I  was  form'd  flesh  of  thy  flesh, 
And  without  whom  am  to  no  end,  my  guide 
And  head,  what  thou  hast  said  is  just  and  right : 
For  we  to  him  indeed  all  praises  owe, 
And  daily  thanks  ;  I  chiefly,  who  enjoy  <« 

So  far  the  happier  lot,  enjoying  thee 
Preeminent  by  so  much  odds,  while  thou 
Like  consort  to  thyself  canst  no  where  find. 
That  day  I  oft  remember,  when  from  sleep 
I  first  awak'd,  and  found  my  self  repos'd  450 

Under  a  shade  on  flow'rs,  much  wond'ring  where 
And  what  I  was,  whence  thither  brought,  and  how. 
Not  distant  far  from  thence  a  munnuring  sound 
Of  waters  issu'd  from  a  cave,  and  spread 
Into  a  liquid  plain,  then  stood  unmov'd,  «5 

Pure  as  th'  expanse  of  heaven  ;  I  thither  went 
With  unexperienc'd  thought,  and  laid  me  down 
On  the  green  bank,  to  look  into  the  clear 
Smooth  lake,  that  to  me  seem'd  another  sky. 
As  I  bent  down  to  look,  just  opposite  460 

A  shape  within  the  wat'ry  gleam  appear'd 
Bending  to  look  on  me :  I  started  back, 

451  m]  The   second  ed.  reads    'of  flowers,'    but  Tickell, 
Fenton,  Bentley,  and  Newton,  read  '  on  '  after  the  first  edition. 

459  lake]  Compare  Ov.  Met.  iil.  457.    Newton. 

461  A  shape]  Compare  the  Sarcotis  of  Masenius,  lib.  iii.  p. 
130,  ed.  Barbou,  describing  Sarcothea : 

'  stetit  obvia  fonti 

Virgo,  novasque  freto  miratm"  crescere  silvas. 

Ipsa  etiam  proprise  spectans  ab  imagine  formae 

Luditur,  et  niveum  veneratur  in  ore  decorem,  etc' 


132  PARADISE    LOST. 

It  started  back  ;  but  pleas'd  I  soon  return'd, 
Pleas'd  it  return'd  as  soon  with  answering  looks 
Of  sympathy  and  love  :  there  I  had  fix'd  w 

Mine  eyes  till  now,  and  pin'd  with  vain  desire, 
Had  not  a  voice  thus  warn'd  me,  What  thou  seest, 
What  there  thou  seest,  fair  creatui'e,  is  thyself; 
With  thee  it  came  and  goes :  but  follow  me. 
And  I  will  bring  thee  where  no  shadow  stays     «o 
Thy  coming,  and  thy  soft  embraces  ;  he 
Whose  image  thou  art,  him  thou  shalt  enjoy 
Inseparably  thine,  to  him  shalt  bear 
Multitudes  like  thyself,  and  thence  be  call'd 
Mother  of  human  race.     What  could  I  do,         «5 
But  follow  straight,  invisibly  thus  led  ? 
Till  I  espy'd  thee,  fair  indeed  and  tall, 
Under  a  platane  ;  yet,  methought,  less  fair, 
Less  winning  soft,  less  amiably  mUd,  479 

Than  that  smooth  wat'ry  image ;  back  I  tum'd, 
Thou  following  cry'dst  aloud,  Return,  fair  Eve, 
Whom  fly'st  thou  ?  whom  thou  fly'st,  of  him  thou  art, 
His  flesh,  his  bone  ;  to  give  thee  being  I  lent 
Out  of  my  side  to  thee,  nearest  my  heart, 
Substantial  life,  to  have  thee  by  my  side  48* 

Henceforth  an  individual  solace  dear : 
Part  of  my  soul,  I  seek  thee,  and  thee  claim. 
My  other  half.     With  that  thy  gentle  hand 
Seiz'd  mine ;  I  yielded,  and  from  that  time  see 

479   Under  a  platane]  See  Grotii  Adamus  Exsul.  p.  36. 
Adamus,  platani  suppositus  comae.' 
Tickell  and  Fenton  read  a  '  plantan.' 


BOOK  IV.  133 

How  bciiuty  is  excell'd  by  manly  grace  4m 

And  wisdom,  which  alone  is  truly  fair. 

So  spake  our  general  mother,  and,  with  eyes 
Of  conjugal  attraction  unreprov'd 
And  meek  surrender,  half  embracing  lean'd 
On  our  first  father  ;  half  her  swelling  breast       «a 
Naked  met  his  under  the  flowing  gold 
Of  her  loose  tresses  hid :  he,  in  delight 
Both  of  her  beauty  and  submissive  charms, 
Smil'd  with  superior  love,  as  Jupiter 
On  Juno  smiles,  when  he  impregns  the  clouds    soo 
That  shed  May  flowers,  and  press'd  her  matron  lip 
With  kisses  pure :  aside  the  devil  turn'd 
For  envy,  yet  with  jealous  leer  malign 
Ey'd  them  askance,  and  to  himself  thus  plain'd. 

Sight  hateful,  sight  tormenting !  thus  these  two 
Imparadis'd  in  one  another's  arms,  sos 

The  happier  Eden,  shall  enjoy  their  fill 
Of  bUss  on  bliss,  while  I  to  hell  am  thrust, 
Where  neither  joy  nor  love,  but  fierce  desire, 
Among  our  other  torments  not  the  least,  sio 

Still  unfulfiU'd  with  pain  of  longing  pines. 

500  impregns]  See  Dante  H  Purgat.  c.  xxiv. 
'  L'aura  di  Maggio  muovesi,  ed  olezza 
Tutta  impregaata  dall'  erba,  e  da'  fiori.' 
601  matro7i\  Meeting.     Bentl.  MS. 
504  Ey''cl  them  askance\  See  Dante  Inferno,  c.  vi. 

'  Gli  diritti  occhi  torse  allora  in  biechi.' 
809  Where\  Bentley  would  read,  '  Where's '  for  '  Where  is,' 
but  Pearce  observes  that  Milton  often  leaves  out  'is,'  as 
B.  viii.  621. 


134 


PARADISE    LOST. 


Yet  let  me  not  forget  what  I  have  gain'd 

From  their  own  mouths  :  all  is  not  theirs  it  seems  ; 

One  fatal  tree  there  stands  of  Knowledge  call'd 

Forbidden  them  to  taste  :  knowledge  forbidden : 

Suspicious,  reasonless.     Why  should  their  Lord 

Envy  them  that  ?  can  it  be  sin  to  know  ? 

Can  it  be  death  ?  and  do  they  only  stand 

By  ignorance  ?  is  that  theii-  happy  state, 

The  proof  of  their  obedience  and  their  faith  ?     520 

O  fair  foundation  laid  whereon  to  build 

Their  ruin !  hence  I  will  excite  their  minds 

With  more  desu'e  to  know,  and  to  reject 

Envious  commands,  invented  with  design 

To  keep  them  low,  whom  knowledge  might  exalt 

Equal  with  gods ;  aspiring  to  be  such, 

They  taste  and  die :  what  likelier  can  ensue  ? 

But  first  with  narrow  search  I  must  walk  round 

This  garden,  and  no  corner  leave  unspy'd ; 

A  chance  but  chance  may  lead  where  I  may  meet  530 

Some  wandering  spix'it  of  heaven,  by  fountain  side, 

Or  in  thick  shade  retir'd  from  him  to  draw 

What  further  would  be  learn'd.   Live  while  ye  may, 

Yet  happy  pair  ;  enjoy,  till  I  return, 

Short  pleasures,  for  long  woes  are  to  succeed.    535 

So  saying,  his  proud  step  he  scornful  turn'd, 
But  with  sly  circumspection,  and  began 
Through  wood,  through  waste,  o'er  hill,  o'er  dale, 
his  roam. 

530  A  chance]  This  liue,  I  think,  should  be  thus  read : 
A  chance  —  but  chance  may  lead  where  I  may  meet. 


BOOK   IV.  135 

Rfean  while  in  utmost  longitude,  where  heaven 

With  earth  and  ocean  meets,  the  setting  sun      54a 

Slowly  descended,  and  with  right  aspect 

Against  the  eastern  gate  of  paradise 

Level'd  his  ev'ning  rays  ;  it  was  a  rock 

Of  alabaster,  pil'd  up  to  the  clouds, 

Conspicuous  far,  winding  with  one  ascent  545 

Accessible  from  earth,  one  entrance  high  ; 

The  rest  was  craggy  cliiF,  that  overhung 

Still  as  it  rose,  impossible  to  climb. 

Betwixt  these  rocky  pillars  Gabriel  sat, 

Chief  of  the  angelic  guards,  awaiting  night ;       sso 

About  him  exercis'd  heroic  games 

Th'  unarmed  youth  of  heaven ;  but  nigh  at  hand 

Celestial  armoury,  shields,  helms,  and  spears. 

Hung  high  with  diamond  flaming  and  with  gold. 

Thither  came  Uriel,  gliding  through  the  even    555 

On  a  sunbeam,  swift  as  a  shooting  star 

In  autumn  thwarts  the  night,  when  vapours  fir'd 

Impress  the  air,  and  show  the  mariner 

From  what  point  of  his  compass  to  beware 

Impetuous  winds :  he  thus  began  in  haste.  sso 

542  eastern]  '  The  sun  setting  shined  on  the  eastern  gate , 
'tis  well  it  was  higher  than  all  the  rest  of  Paradise.' 

Bentl.  31S. 
544  alablaster]  Thus  spelt  in  both  Milton's  own  editions. 
554  uith  diamond]    See    Prose   Works,   1.   232.   (Apol.   for 
Smectymnus.)    '  Their  zeal,   whose   substance   is   ethereal, 
arming  in  complete  diamond.' 
556  05  a  shooting]  See  Dante  II  Paradiso,  c.  xv.  16. 
'  E  pare  stella,  che  tramuti  loco.' 


136  PARADISE    LOST. 

Gabriel,  to  thee  thj  course  by  lot  hatli  given 
Charge  and  strict  watch,  that  to  this  happy  place 
No  evil  thing  approach  or  enter  in : 
This  day  at  highth  of  noon  came  to  my  sphere 
A  spirit,  zealous,  as  he  seem'd,  to  know  ms 

More  of  the  Almighty's  works,  and  chiefly  man 
God's  latest  image:  I  describ'd  his  way 
Bent  all  on  speed,  and  mark'd  his  aery  gait : 
But  in  the  mount  that  lies  from  Eden  north, 
"Where  he  first  hghted,  soon  discern'd  his  looks  sro 
Alien  from  heaven,  with  passions  foul  obscur'd : 
Mine  eye  pursu'd  him  still,  but  under  shade 
Lost  sight  of  him ;  one  of  the  banish'd  crew, 
I  fear,  hath  ventur'd  from  the  deep  to  raise 
New  troubles  ;  him  thy  care  must  be  to  find.      575 

To  whom  the  winged  warrior  thus  return'd : 
Uriel,  no  wonder  if  thy  perfect  sight, 
Amid  the  sun's  bright  circle  where  thou  sitt'st. 
See  far  and  wide  :  in  at  this  gate  none  pass 
The  vigilance  hei-e  plac'd,  but  such  as  come       sso 
Well  known  from  heaven ;  and  since  meridian  hour 
No  creature  thence.     If  spirit  of  other  sort, 

661  to  the]  It  has  been  proposed  to  read  these  lines  with  the 
insertion  of  a  parenthesis : 

'  Gabriel  (to  thee  thy  course  by  lot  hath  given 
Charge  and  strict  watch,  that  to  this  happy  place 
No  evil  thing  approach  or  enter  in) 
This  day  at  highth  of  noon,'  &c. 
667  desa^'d\  Some  read  '  descry'd.'     Newton. 
676  winged]   See  Marino's   SI.  of  the   Innocents,  p.    33- 
(Transl.) 

'  Shining  troops  of  loinged  armies  ride.' 


BOOK    IV.  137 

So  minded,  have  o'erleap'd  these  earthy  bounds 

On  purpose,  hard  thou  know'st  it  to  exclude 

Spiritual  substance  with  corporeal  bar.  sss 

But  if  within  the  circuit  of  these  walks 

In  whatsoever  shape  he  lurk,  of  whom 

Thou  tell'st,  by  morrow  dawning  I  shall  know. 

So  promis'd  he,  and  Uriel  to  his  charge 
Return'd  on  that  bright  beam,  whose  point  now  rais'd 
Bore  him  slope  downward  to  the  sun,  now  fall'n 
Beneath  th'  Azores  ;  whether  the  prime  orb,     sm 
Incredible  how  swift,  had  thither  roll'd 
Diurnal,  or  this  less  volubil  earth, 
By  shorter  flight  to  th'  east,  had  left  him  there,  ssj 
Arraying  with  reflected  purple  and  gold 
The  clouds  that  on  his  western  throne  attend. 
Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  gray 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad  ; 
Silence  accompany'd  ;  for  beast  and  bird,  soo 

They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests, 
"Were  slunk,  all  but  the  wakeful  nightingale  ; 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung ; 
Silence  was  pleas'd :  now  glow'd  the  firmament 

592  whether]  '  whither.'     Milton's  own  ed. 

594  miubill  '  volubil,'  with  the  second  syllable  long,  as  in 
the  Latin  volubilis ;  when  it  is  short,  Milton  writes  it '  voluble.' 

Newton. 

699  livery]  Fletch.  P.  Isl.  vi.  st.  54. 
'  The  world  late  clothed  in  nighVs  black  livery.''     Todd. 

600  Silence]  See  this  personification  m  Beaumont's  Psyche, 
c.  vi.  St.  174.  '  Silence  for  porter  stood.'  c.  xix.  st  160. 
'  Whilst  Silence  sate  upon  his  lips.' 

602  all  hut]  Not  all.     Owls.    Bubones.    BenU.  MS. 


138  PARADISE    LOST. 

With  living  sapphires  ;  Hesperus  that  led  805 

The  starry  host  rode  brightest,  tiU  the  moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length 
Apparent  queen  unveil'd  her  peerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw. 

When  Adam  thus  to  Eve  :  Fair  consort,  th'  hour 
Of  night  and  all  things  now  retir'd  to  rest  en 

Mind  us  of  like  repose,  since  God  hath  set 
Labour  and  rest,  as  day  and  night,  to  men 
Successive,  and  the  timely  dew  of  sleep 
Now  falling  with  soft  slumbrous  weight  inclines 
Our  eyelids  :  other  creatures  aU  day  long 
Rove  idle,  unemploy'd,  and  less  need  rest : 
Man  hath  his  daily  work  of  body  or  mind 
Appointed,  which  declares  his  dignity, 
And  the  regard  of  heaven  on  all  his  ways  ;        flso 
While  other  animals  unactive  range. 
And  of  their  doings  God  takes  no  account. 
To-morrow  ere  fresh  morning  streak  the  east 
With  first  approach  of  light  we  must  be  ris'n, 
And  at  our  pleasant  labour,  to  reform  oa 

Yon  flowery  arbours,  yonder  alleys  green, 
Our  walk  at  noon,  with  branches  overgrown, 
That  mock  our  scant  manuring,  and  require 
More  hands  than  ours  to  lop  their  wanton  growth : 
Those  blossoms  also  and  those  dropping  gums,  sao 
That  lie  bestrown  unsightly  and  unsmooth, 

627  walk]  In  the  first  ed.  '  walks.'     Newton, 
manuring]   This  is  to  be  understood  as  in  the  French 
mancEuvre,  or  working  with  hands.    Richardson. 


BOOK    IV.  139 

Ask  riddance,  if  we  mean  to  tread  with  ease  : 
Mean  while,  as  nature  wills,  night  bids  us  rest. 

To  whom  thus  Eve  with  perfect  beauty  adorn'd. 
My  author  and  disposer,  what  thou  bidd'st  ess 

Unargu'd  I  obey,  so  God  ordains  ; 
God  is  thy  law,  thou  mine  ;  to  know  no  more 
Is  woman's  happiest  knowledge  and  her  praise. 
With  thee  conversing  I  forget  all  time, 
All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  please  alike  :  sm 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  morn,  her  rising  sweet. 
With  charm  of  earhest  birds  ;  pleasant  the  sun, 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams,  on  herb,  tree,  fi'uit,  and  flower, 
Glist'ring  with  dew  ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth  sis 
After  soft  showers  ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  ev'ning  mild  ;  then  silent  night 
With  this  her  solemn  bird  and  this  fair  moon, 
And  these  the  gems  of  heaven,  her  starry  train : 
But  neither  breath  of  morn  when  she  ascends    sso 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds,  nor  rising  sun 
On  this  delightful  land,  nor  herb,  fruit,  flower, 
Glist'ring  with  dew,  nor  fragrance  after  showers, 
Nor  grateful  evening  mild,  nor  silent  night 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  moon,   ess 
Or  glittering  starlight,  without  thee  is  sweet. 
But  wherefore  all  night  long  shine  these  ?  for 

whom 
This  glorious  sight,  when  sleep  hath  shut  all  eyes  ? 

To  whom  our  general  ancestor  reply'd. 
Daughter  of  God  and  man,  accomphsh'd  Eve,  eso 


140  PARADISE   LOST. 

Those  have  their  course  to  finish,  round  the  earth, 
By  morrow  ev'ning,  and  from  land  to  land 
In  order,  though  to  nations  yet  unborn, 
Minist'ring  light  prepar'd,  they  set  and  rise  ; 
Lest  total  darkness  should  by  night  regain  ess 

Her  old  possession,  and  extinguish  life 
In  nature  and  all  tilings,  which  these  soft  fires 
Not  only  enlighten,  but  with  kindly  heat 
Of  various  influence  foment  and  warm, 
Temper  or  nourish  or  in  part  shed  down  era 

Their  stellar  virtue  on  all  kinds  that  grow 
On  earth,  made  hereby  apter  to  receive 
Perfection  from  the  sun's  more  potent  ray. 
These  then,  though  unbeheld  in  deep  of  night,  674 
Shine  not  in  vain ;  nor  think,  though  men  were  none, 
That  heaven  would  want  spectators,  God  want 

praise : 
Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake,  and  when  we  sleep. 
All  these  "nath  ceaseless  praise  his  works  behold 
Both  day  and  night :  how  often  from  the  steep  m 
Of  echoing  hill  or  thicket  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  aii', 
Sole,  or  responsive  each  to  other's  note, 
Singing  their  great  Creator  ?  oft  in  bands 


6*1  Those]  "These"  is  Tonson's  and  Newton's  alteration. 
Milton's  reading  is  '  Those.' 

677  walk  the  earth]  The  same  expression  occurs  in  P.  L. 
vii.  477.  '  Creep  the  ground.'  Cicero  de  Finibus,  ii.  c.  34. 
'  Mai"ia  ambulavisset.'     See  Wakef.  Lucret.  ii.  v.  206. 


BOOK    IV.  141 

While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding  walk, 
With  heavenly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds       688 
In  full  harmonic  number  join'd,  their  songs 
Divide  the  night,  and  lift  our  thoughts  to  heaven. 

Thus  talking  hand  in  hand  alone  they  pass'd 
On  to  their  blissful  bower  ;  it  was  a  place  eso 

Chosen  by  the  sov'reign  Planter,  when  he  fram  d 
All  things  to  man's  delightful  use ;  the  roof 
Of  thickest  covert  was  inwoven  shade, 
Laurel  and  myrtle,  and  what  higher  grew 
Of  firm  and  fragrant  leaf;  on  either  side  ess 

Acanthus  and  each  odorous  bushy  shrub 
Fenc'd  up  the  vei'dant  wall ;  each  beauteous  flow'r, 
Iris  all  hues,  roses,  and  jessamin 
Rear'd  high  theii-  flourish'd  heads  between,  and 

wrought 
Mosaic ;  under  foot  the  violet,  7w» 

Crocus,  and  hyacinth  with  rich  inlay 
Broider'd  the  ground,  more  colour'd  than  with  stone 
Of  costliest  emblem  :  other  creature  here. 
Beast,  bird,  insect,  or  worm,  durst  enter  none ; 
Such  was  their  awe  of  man.     In  shadier  bower  705 
More  sacred  and  sequester'd,  though  but  feign'd, 
Pan  or  Sylvanus  never  slept ;  nor  nymph, 


688  Divide]  Sil.  Ital.  vii.  154. 

'  Cum  buccina  nocttm 

Divideret.'  Richardson. 

TO8  emblem]  Inlay.  '  Arte  pavimenti,  atquo  emblemati  ver- 
tniculato.'     Bentley. 

'"6  shadier]  shadie,  2nd  ed. 


142  PARADISE    LOST. 

Nor  Faunus  haunted.     Here  in  close  recess 
With  flowers,  garlands,  and  sweet-smelling  herbs, 
Espoused  Eve  deck'd  first  her  nuptial  bed,         no 
And  heavenly  choirs  the  Hymenjean  sung, 
What  day  the  genial  angel  to  our  sire 
Brought  her  in  naked  beauty  more  adorn'd, 
More  lovely  than  Pandora,  whom  the  gods 
Endow'd  with  all  their  gifts,  and  0  too  like        7ij 
In  sad  event,  when  to  the  unwiser  son 
Of  Japhet  brought  by  Hermes  she  ensnar'd 
Mankind  with  her  fair  looks,  to  be  aveng'd 
On  him  who  had  stole  Jove's  authentic  fire. 

Thus  at  their  shady  lodge  arriv'd,  both  stood, 
Both  turn'd,  and  under  open  sky  ador'd 
The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heaven 
Which  they  beheld,  the  moon's  resplendent  globe. 
And  starry  pole.     Thou  also  mad'st  the  night. 
Maker  Omnipotent,  and  thou  the  day,  725 

Which  we  in  our  appointed  work  employ'd 
Have  finish'd,  happy  in  our  mutual  help 
And  mutual  love,  the  crown  of  all  our  bliss 
Ordain'd  by  thee ;  and  this  delicious  place 
For  us  too  large,  where  thy  abundance  wants    t3o 
Partakers,  and  uncrop'd  falls  to  the  ground. 
But  thou  hast  promis'd  from  us  two  a  race 
To  fill  the  earth,  who  shall  with  us  extol 

'19  authentic  jire\ 

'  Or  him  who  stole  from  Jove  narthecal  fire.'     Bentl.  MS- 
^  moon]  Virg.  ^n.  vi.  725.  '  Lucentemque  globmn  lunae.' 

Hume. 


BOOK   IV.  143 

Thy  goodness  infinite,  both  when  we  wake, 
And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thy  gift  of  sleep,     ras 

This  said  unanimous,  and  other  rites 
Observing  none,  but  adoration  pure 
Which  God  hkes  best,  into  their  inmost  bower 
Handed  they  went ;  and,  eas'd  the  putting  off 
These  troublesome  disguises  which  we  wear,      r« 
Straight  side  by  side  were  laid ;  nor  turn'd,  I  ween, 
Adam  from  his  fair  spouse ;  nor  Eve  the  rites 
Mysterious  of  connubial  love  refus'd  : 
Whatever  hypocrites  austerely  talk 
Of  purity,  and  place,  and  innocence,  743 

Defaming  as  impure  what  God  declares 
Pure,  and  commands  to  some,  leaves  free  to  all. 
Our  Maker  bids  increase  ;  who  bids  abstain 
But  our  destroyer,  foe  to  God  and  man  ? 
Hail  wedded  love,  mysterious  law,  true  source  750 
Of  human  offspring,  sole  propriety 
In  paradise  of  all  things  common  else  ! 
By  thee  adulterous  lust  was  driv'n  from  men 
Among  the  bestial  herds  to  range ;  by  thee 


750  ffail  wedded  hve]  Mr.  Dyce  compares  Middleton : 
'  Reverend  and  honourable  matiimony, 
Mother  of  lawful!  sweetes,  unshamed  mominss, 
Dangerlesse  pleasures;  thou  that  mak'st  the  bed 
Both  pleasant,  and  legitimately  fruitful :  without  thee, 
All  the  whole  world  were  sovled  bastardy: 
Thou  art  the  onely  and  the  greatest  forme. 
That  put'st  a  diiference  between  our  desires 
And  the  disordered  appetites  of  beastes.' 

rhe  Phmnix,  1607.  Sig.  D.  4. 


144  PARADISE    LOST. 

Founded  in  reason,  loyal,  just,  and  pure,  »» 

Relations  dear,  and  all  the  charities 

Of  father,  son,  and  brother,  first  were  known. 

Far  be  it,  that  I  should  write  thee  sin  or  blame, 

Or  think  thee  unbefitting  holiest  place, 

Perpetual  fountain  of  domestic  sweets,  ^eo 

Whose  bed  is  undefil'd  and  chaste  pronounc'd. 

Present,  or  past,  as  saints  and  patriarchs  us'd. 

Hei-e  Love  his  golden  shafts  employs,  here  lights 

His  constant  lamp,  and  waves  his  purple  wings, 

Reigns  here  and  revels ;  not  in  the  bought  smile  765 

Of  harlots,  loveless,  joyless,  unendear'd, 

Casual  fruition ;  nor  in  court  amours, 

Mix'd  dance,  or  wanton  mask,  or  midnight  ball, 

Or  serenade,  which  the  starv'd  lover  sings 

To  his  proud  fair,  best  quitted  with  disdain.        "o 

These,  luU'd  by  nightingales,  embracing  slept, 

And  on  their  naked  limbs  the  flow'ry  roof 

Shower'd  roses,  which  the  morn  repair'd.  Sleep  on, 

Blest  pair,  and  O  !  yet  happiest  if  ye  seek 

No  happier  state,  and  know  to  know  no  more.  775 

Now  had  night  measur'd  with  her  shadowy  cone 
Half  way  up  hUl  this  vast  sublunar  vault, 
And  from  their  ivory  port  the  cherubim 
Forth  issuing  at  th'  accustom'd  hour  stood  arm'd 
To  their  night  watches  in  warlike  parade,  78o 

When  Gabriel  to  his  next  in  power  thus  spake. 

Uzziel,  half  these  draw  off",  and  coast  the  south 

778  ivm-yl  Ov.  Met.  iv.  185. 

'  Lemnius  extemplo  valvas  patefecit  ebumas.    Newton. 


BOOK   IV.  145 

With  strictest  watch  ;  these  other  wheel  the  north-. 
Our  circuit  meets  full  west.  As  flame  thej  part, 
Half  wheeling  to  the  shield,  half  to  the  speai-.  t85 
From  these,  two  strong  and  subtle  spirits  he  call'd 
That  near  him  stood,  and  gave  them  thus  in  charge. 

Ithuriel  and  Zephon,  with  winged  speed 
Search  thi'ough  this  garden,  leave  unsearch'd  no 

nook  ; 
But  chiefly  where  those  two  fair  creatures  lodge,  'so 
Now  laid  perhaps  asleep  secure  of  harm. 
This  evening  from  the  sun's  decline  arriv'd. 
Who  tells  of  some  infernal  spirit  seen 
Hitherward  bent,  who  could  have  thought?  escap'd 
The  bars  of  heU,  on  errand  bad  no  doubt :  795 

Such  where  ye  find,  seize  fast,  and  hither  bring. 

So  saying,  on  he  led  his  radiant  files, 
Dazzhng  the  moon ;  these  to  the  bower  direct 
In  search  of  whom  they  sought :  him  there  they 

found, 
Squat  hke  a  toad,  close  at  the  ear  of  Eve ;  soo 

Assaying  by  his  devilish  art  to  reach 
The  organs  of  her  fancy,  and  with  them  forge 
Illusions  as  he  list,  phantasms,  and  dreams  ; 
Or  if,  inspiring  venom,  he  might  taint 
Th'  animal  spmts  that  from  pure  blood  arise     sos 
Like  gentle  breaths  from  rivers  pure,  thence  raise 

785  $hield\  '  Declinare  ad  hastam,  vel  ad  scutum.'    Livy. 

Hume. 
802  orgam\  v.  Mer.  W.  of.  Wind.    A.  v.  S.  v. 

'  Raise  np  the  organs  of  her  fantasy.'  Todd, 

VOL.   I.  10 


146  PARADISE    LOST. 

At  least  distemper'd,  discontented  thoughts, 
Vain  hopes,  vain  aims,  inox-dinate  desires 
Blown  up  with  high  conceits  ingend'ring  pride. 
Him  thus  intent  Ithuriel  with  his  spear  sio 

Touch'd  lightlj ;  for  no  falsehood  can  endure 
Touch  of  celestial  temper,  but  returns 
Of  force  to  its  own  likeness :  up  he  stai'ts 
Discover'd  and  surpris'd.     As  when  a  spark 
Lights  on  a  heap  of  nitrous  powder,  laid  bis 

Fit  for  the  tun,  some  magazine  to  store 
Against  a  rumor'd  war,  the  smutty  grain 
With  sudden  blaze  diffus'd  inflames  the  air : 
So  started  up  in  his  own  shape  the  fiend. 
Back  stepp'd  those  two  fair  angels,  half  amaz'd  sao 
So  sudden  to  behold  the  grisly  king ; 
Yet  thus,  unmov'd  with  fear,  accost  him  soon. 

Which  of  those  rebel  spirits  adjudg'd  to  hell 
Com'st  thou,  escap'd  thy  prison  ?  and  transform'd, 
Why  sat'st  thou  like  an  enemy  in  wait,  sas 

Here  watching  at  the  head  of  these  that  sleep  ? 

Know  ye  not  then,  said  Satan  fiU'd  with  scorn, 
Know  ye  not  me  ?  ye  knew  me  once  no  mate 
For  you,  there  sitting  where  ye  durst  not  soar ; 
Not  to  know  me  argues  yourselves  unknown,     ssa 
The  lowest  of  your  throng ;  or  if  ye  know, 
Why  ask  ye,  and  superfluous  begin 
Your  message,  like  to  end  as  much  in  vain  ? 

829  sitting]  '  Nor  shall  he  hope  to  sit  where  Nero  soars.* 

See  Tragedy  of  C.  T.  Nero,  p.  13  (1607). 

830  Not  to  hnow]    '  Nobilem   ignorari,  est    inter   ignobiles 
censeri.'     v.  J.  C.  Scaligen  Viiam.  p.  6.  4to. 


BOOK   IV.  147 

To  whom  thus  Zephon,  answering  scorn  with 
scorn. 
Think  not,  revolted  spirit,  thy  shape  the  same  sss 
Or  undiminish'd  brightness,  to  be  known 
As  when  thou  stood'st  in  heaven  upright  and  pure  ; 
That  glory  then,  when  thou  no  more  wast  good. 
Departed  from  thee,  and  thou  resemblest  now 
Thy  sin  and  place  of  doom  obscure  and  foul.      340 
But  come,  for  thou,  besure,  shalt  give  account 
To  him  who  sent  us,  whose  charge  is  to  keep 
This  place  inviolable,  and  these  from  harm. 

So  spake  the  cherub,  and  his  grave  rebuke, 
Severe  in  youthful  beauty,  added  grace  ms 

Invincible  :  abash'd  the  devil  stood, 
And  felt  how  awful  goodness  is,  and  saw 
Virtue  in  her  shape  how  lovely,  saw,  and  pin'd 
His  loss ;  but  chiefly  to  find  here  observed 
His  lustre  visibly  impair'd ;  yet  seem'd  aso 

Undaunted.     If  I  must  contend,  said  he. 
Best  with  the  best,  the  sender  not  the  sent. 
Or  all  at  once  ;  more  glory  will  be  won. 
Or  less  be  lost.     Thy  fear,  said  Zephon  bold. 
Will  save  us  trial  what  the  least  can  do  ss» 

Single  against  thee  wicked,  and  thence  weak. 


835  same]  The  commentators  think  that  a  difficulty  ot  con- 
struction exists  in  this  passage,  and  Bentley  would  alter  it 
It  seems  to  me  to  be  plain.  '  Think  not  thy  brightness  undi- 
minished, or  thy  shape  to  be  known  the  same  as,'  &c. 

848  pin'd]  Pers.  Sat.  iii.  38. 

'  Viriutem  videant,  intabescantque  relicta.'     Hume. 


148  PARADISE   LOST. 

The  fiend  reply'd  not,  overcome  with  rage ; 
But  like  a  proud  steed  rein'd  went  haughty  on, 
Champing  his  iron  curb :  to  strive  or  fly 
He  held  it  vain  ;  awe  from  above  had  quell'd    aeo 
His  heart,  not  else  dismay'd.    Now  drew  they  nigh 
The  western  point,  where  those  half-rounding 

guards 
Just  met,  and  closing  stood  in  squadron  join'd. 
Awaiting  next  command.     To  whom  their  chief 
Gabriel  from  the  front  thus  call'd  aloud.  ass 

O  friends,  I  hear  the  tread  of  nimble  feet 
Hasting  this  way,  and  now  by  glimpse  discern 
Ithuriel  and  Zephon  through  the  shade, 
And  with  them  comes  a  third  of  regal  port. 
But  faded  splendor  wan  ;  who  by  his  gait  sro 

And  fierce  demeanour  seems  the  prince  of  heU, 
Nor  likely  to  part  hence  without  contest : 
Stand  firm,  for  in  his  look  defiance  lours. 

He  scarce  had  ended,  when  those  two  approach'd, 
And  brief  related  whom  they  brought,  where  found, 
How  busied,  in  what  form  and  posture  couch'd. 
To  whom  with  stern  regard  thus  Gabriel  spake. 

Why  hast  thou,  Satan,  broke  the  bounds  pre- 
scrib'd 
To  thy  transgressions,  and  disturb'd  the  charge 
Of  others,  who  approve  not  to  transgress  sao 

By  thy  example,  but  have  power  and  right 

869  Champing]  See  Jlsch.  Prom.  Vinct.  1009. 
dc«:a)v  6e  gto/mov  <jf  veo^vy^g 
Il/j/lof,  8i.a^ri  Kal  Trpof  ijviac  fiu-XV       Thyer, 


BOOK   IV.  149 

To  question  thy  bold  entrance  on  this  place, 
Employ'd,  it  seems,  to  violate  sleep,  and  those 
Whose  dwelling  God  hath  planted  here  in  bliss  ? 

To  whom  thus  Satan  with  contemptuous  brow,  sss 
Gabriel,  thou  hadst  in  heaven  th'  esteem  of  wise, 
And  such  I  held  thee ;  but  this  question  ask'd 
Puts  me  in  doubt.  Lives  there  who  loves  his  pain  ? 
Who  would  not,  finding  way,  break  loose  from  hell, 
Though  thither  doom'd  ?  thou  wouldst  thyself,  no 
And  boldly  venture  to  whatever  place  [doubt, 
Farthest  fi'om  pain,  where  thou  mightst  hope  to 

change 
Torment  with  ease,  and  soonest  recompense 
Dole  with  delight,  which  in  this  place  I  sought : 
To  thee  no  reason,  who  know'st  only  good,         sas 
But  evil  hast  not  try'd  :  and  wilt  object 
His  will  who  bound  us  ?  let  him  surer  bar 
His  iron  gates,  if  he  intends  our  stay 
In  that  dark  durance :  thus  much  what  was  ask'd. 
The  rest  is  true  ;  they  found  me  where  they  say  ; 
But  that  implies  not  violence  or  harm. 

Thus  he  in  scorn.     The  warUke  angel  mov'd, 
Disdainfully  half  smiling,  thus  reply'd. 
O  loss  of  one  in  heaven  to  judge  of  wise, 
Since  Satan  fell,  whom  foUy  overthrew,  ms 

And  now  returns  him  from  his  prison  scap'd, 
Gravely  in  doubt  whether  to  hold  them  wise 
Or  not,  who  ask  what  boldness  brought  him  hither 

884  Bole]  Hamlet.     A.  i.  S.  ii. 

'  Weighing  delight  with  dole  '  Todd. 


150  PARADISE    LOST. 

Unlicens'd  from  his  bounds  in  hell  prescrib'd : 
So  wise  he  judges  it  to  fly  from  pain  su 

However,  and  to  scape  his  punishment. 
So  judge  thou  still,  presumptuous,  till  the  wrath, 
Which  thou  incurr'st  by  flying,  meet  thy  flight 
Sevenfold,  and  scourge  that  wisdom  back  to  hell, 
Which  taught  thee  yet  no  better,  that  no  pain   sis 
Can  equal  anger  infinite  provok'd. 
But  wherefore  thou  alone  ?  wherefore  with  thee 
Came  not  all  hell  broke  loose  ?  is  pain  to  them 
Less  pain,  less  to  be  fled,  or  thou  than  they 
Less  hardy  to  endure  ?  courageous  chief,  sac 

The  first  in  flight  from  pain,  hadst  thou  alledg'd 
To  thy  deserted  host  this  cause  of  flight. 
Thou  surely  hadst  not  come  sole  fugitive. 

To  which  the  fiend  thus  answer'd,  frowning  stera. 
Not  that  I  less  endure,  or  shrink  from  pain,       ms 
Insulting  angel,  well  thou  know'st  I  stood 
Thy  fiercest,  when  in  battle  to  thy  aid 
The  blasting  vollied  thunder  made  all  speed. 
And  seconded  thy  else  not  dreaded  spear. 
But  still  thy  words  at  random,  as  before,  930 

Argue  thy  inexperience  what  behooves 
From  hard  assays  and  ill  successes  past 
A  faithful  leader,  not  to  hazard  all 
Through  ways  of  danger  by  himself  untried. 
I  therefore,  I  alone  first  undertook  g* 

To  wing  the  desolate  abyss,  and  spy 

928  The]  '  Thy,'  second  ed. 


BOOK   IV.  15] 

This  new  created  world,  whereof  in  hell 
Fame  is  not  silent,  here  in  hope  to  find 
Better  abode,  and  my  afilieted  Powers 
To  settle  here  on  earth,  or  in  mid  air ;  mo 

Though  for  possession  put  to  try  once  more 
What  thou  and  thy  gay  legions  dare  against ; 
Wliose  easier  business  were  to  serve  their  Lord 
High  up  in  heaven,  with  songs  to  hymn  his  throne, 
And  practis'd  distances  to  cringe,  not  fight.         945 

To  whom  the  warrior  angel  soon  reply'd. 
To  say  and  straight  unsay,  pretending  first 
Wise  to  fly  pain,  professing  next  the  spy, 
Argues  no  leader,  but  a  liar  trac'd, 
Satan,  and  couldst  thou  faithful  add  ?  0  name,  950 
O  sacred  name  of  faithfulness  profan'd ! 
Faithful  to  whom  ?  to  thy  rebellious  crew  ? 
Army  of  fiends,  fit  body  to  fit  head : 
Was  this  your  discipline  and  faith  engag'd, 
Your  military  obedience,  to  dissolve  955 

Allegiance  to  th'  acknowledg'd  Power  supreme  ? 
And  thou  sly  hypocrite,  who  now  wouldst  seem 
Patron  of  liberty,  who  more  than  thou 
Once  fawn'd,  and  cring'd,  and  servilely  ador'd 
Heaven's  awful  Monarch  ?  wherefore  but  in  hope 
To  dispossess  him,  and  thy  self  to  reign  ?  96i 

But  mark  what  I  arreed  thee  now :  Avaunt ! 
Fly  thither  whence  thou  fledst !  If  from  this  hour 

**5  And]  '  With  '  is  understood.     Pearce. 
962  arree/l]  See  Lisle's  Dubartas,  p.  173. 

'  Arreed  in  books  of  heaven  the  summe.' 


152  PARADISE    LOST. 

Within  these  hallow'd  limits  thou  appear, 
Back  to  th'  infernal  pit  I  drag  thee  chain'd,       9«5 
And  seal  thee  so,  as  henceforth  not  to  scorn 
The  facile  gates  of  hell  too  slightly  barr'd. 

So  threaten'd  he :  but  Satan  to  no  threats 
Gave  heed,  but  waxing  more  in  rage  reply'd. 

Then  when  I  am  thy  captive  talk  of  chains,  wo 
Proud  limitary  cherub ;  but  ere  then 
Far  heavier  load  thy  self  expect  to  feel 
From  my  prevaiUng  arm ;  though  heaven's  King 
Ride  on  thy  wings,  and  thou  with  thy  compeers, 
Us'd  to  the  yoke,  draw'st  his  triumphant  wheels  975 
In  progress  through  the  road  of  heaven  star-pav'd. 
While  thus  he  spake,  th'  angelic  squadron  bright 
Turn'd  fiery  red,  sharp'ning  in  mooned  horns 
Their  phalanx,  and  began  to  hem  him  round 
With  ported  spears,  as  thick  as  when  a  field      sao 
Of  Ceres,  ripe  for  harvest,  waving  bends 
Her  bearded  grove  of  ears,  which  way  the  wind 
Sways  them  ;  the  careful  plowman  doubting  stands, 
Lest  on  the  threshing  floor  his  hopeful  sheaves 
Prove  chaff.     On  th'  other  side  Satan  alarm'd,  aes 
Collecting  all  his  might,  dilated  stood. 
Like  Teneriff  or  Atlas  unremoved  : 
His  stature  reach'd  the  sky,  and  on  his  crest 

8*6  And  seal]  See  Northmore's  note  to  Tryphiodorus,  p.  88. 
97«  Star-pav'd]  Ashmore's  Epigrams,  4to.  p.  33. 
'  The  casements  large  of  Heaven  have  open  set, 
And  from  their  star-pav'd  Jloois  have  sent  me  down.' 

Todd. 


BOOK  IV.  153 

Sat  horror  plum'd ;  nor  wanted  in  his  grasp 

What  seem'd  both  spear  and  shield.  Now  dreadful 

Might  have  ensu'd,  nor  only  paradise  [deeds 

In  this  commotion,  but  the  starry  cope 

Of  heaven  perhaps,  or  all  the  elements 

At  least  had  gone  to  wrack,  disturb'd  and  torn 

With  violence  of  this  conflict,  had  not  soon        395 

Th'  Eternal  to  prevent  such  horrid  fray 

Hung  forth  in  heaven  his  golden  scales,  yet  seen 

Betwixt  Astrea  and  the  Scorpion  sign. 

Wherein  all  things  created  first  he  weigh'd. 

The  pendulous  round  earth  with  balanc'd  air    1000 

In  counterpoise  ;  now  ponders  all  events. 

Battles,  and  realms  :  in  these  he  put  two  weights. 

The  sequel  each  of  parting  and  of  fight ; 

The  latter  quick  up  flew  and  kick'd  the  beam : 

Which  Gabriel  spying  thus  bespake  the  fiend,  loos 

Satan,  I  know  thy  strength,  and  thou  know'st 
Neither  our  own  but  giv'n  ;  what  folly  then  [mine : 
To  boast  what  arms  can  do,  since  thine  no  more 
Than  heaven  permits,  nor  mine,  though  doubled 

now 
To  trample  thee  as  mu-e  ?  for  proof  look  up,     101c 
And  read  thy  lot  in  yon  celestial  sign,         [weak. 
Where  thou  art  weigh'd,  and  shown  how  light,  how 
If  thou  resist.     The  fiend  look'd  up,  and  knew 
His  mounted  scale  aloft :  nor  more  ;  but  fled 
Murmuring,  and  with  him  fled  the  shades  of  night. 

1008  Thine]   'Thine'    and   'mine'   refer  to  strength,  ver. 
1006,  not  to  arms.    Newton. 


Hue 


UC  SOUTHERN 


REGIONAL  UBRARVF^CiLrTY 


Ka    000  624  510    4 


JNIVERSITY  OF  CA  ,  RIVERSIDE  LIBRARY 


3  1210  01203  3492 


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